Embers and Ash
by Axia West
Summary: A fire isn't out until the embers have gone cold. A sequel to The Blanket. Anders and Tavia Tabris have relocated to Orlais. They're ready to begin a family and a life of peace, but a choice is never made without suffering the consequences.
1. One

**Embers and Ash**

**One**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Anders, Nathaniel, Leliana or any of the other _Dragon Age Origins_ characters. Please do not publish this elsewhere. This story takes place some months after the events in _The Blanket_. Since this is a sequel, it won't make much sense if you haven't already read _The Blanket_. Please review if you enjoy the piece. It's always very encouraging and speeds the writing process!

*

_Les murs ont des oreilles._

"Even the walls have ears."

*

Anders stared down at the dust-colored pamphlet in mute horror. The postmark said Vigils Keep, and the envelope smelled faintly of stale whisky. Of course it was from Oghren. _Of course_ it was. Who else would send him a booklet called, "So You're Going To Be a Father!" complete with hideously detailed medical illustrations of _dwarf_ anatomy.

_Andraste's blood._

He most definitely did _not_ need to know these things about dwarves, or about anyone, actually, and the image of that poor dwarf woman's legs splayed open on a granite table would haunt him for years to come.

"Darling? I'm feeling a sudden urge to research long-range hexes!" he called, knowing Tavia would hear him through the pebbled archway of the kitchen.

Her prolific love of cooking had transferred well to their home life. Not that it could accurately be described as "home life." The average, typical marriage he had suggested to her had never come about. Oh they were married, husband and wife, but there was nothing average about it. Mainly because Tavia insisted on providing for them by taking on insane, suicidal missions to bring back hostages or rescue civilians from collapsed mines.

She would never put down the sword. That much was obvious.

As expected, Tavia emerged from the kitchen. Whatever she was cooking in there smelled almost as good as she looked.

"Maker," Anders breathed, dropping the pamphlet on the dining room table.

"Hallo," she said sheepishly, her cheeks turning bright pink.

Sometimes he forgot just how beautiful she was; he also forgot how very pregnant she was. It was like seeing her for the first time all over again. Sure, in the dank cellar with Templar blood hanging in a mist around him, she hadn't exactly looked sexy. But even then he had been captivated by her brilliantly blue eyes and the willful determination that set her pretty jaw in a line.

But if he was honest with himself, Anders liked her best this way – in their home, safe, clean and swordless. Pregnancy was treating her well. She was doing that glowing thing, which he had always privately insisted was a lie conjured by husbands wanting to feel better about their fat wives. But she really and truly looked… different. Contented. _Glowy_, even.

Anders swiped the pamphlet off the table and padded over to her, instinctually putting his palm over her round stomach. That seemed to be the best place for his hand, protecting the strong little life that grew inside. He held up the booklet, prying it open with his thumb.

"Look," he muttered, "at _this_. Have you ever seen anything so disturbing in your life?"

"Oh heavens," Tavia said flatly. "I think I've lost my appetite now."

"That makes two of us."

"What were you saying about hexes? I think this time I approve."

"It's from everybody's favorite drunkard," Anders pointed out with a sigh. He collapsed into the nearest chair, taking Tavia with him. He propped her on his knee and looped his arms underneath her belly.

"_Oof_. Maker's breath, woman, did you turn into a bronto while I wasn't looking?"

"It's your fault," she returned casually, "He's got his father's thick skull."

Anders opened his mouth to riposte with something about other thick appendages, but there was a knock at the door. Tavia jumped up and ran, too fast for his liking, to the door. Their cottage was small – a cozy, cramped sitting room, dining room and kitchen all in a connected loop on the first floor. Trundling up the poky staircase would put you in a hall with two bedrooms and one washroom. They probably could have afforded much more luxurious accommodations, but Tavia wanted to settle in a humble house. Throwing gold around needlessly was a good way to attract attention, and attention was exactly what they didn't want.

"Who goes there?" Anders bellowed from the dining room, doing his best impression of a surly giant. That voice always made Tavia laugh.

"It'll be Leliana," Tavia replied, unlocking the front door.

His smile vanished. In a few loping strides he was at the door beside her, forcing it shut with his hand over her head. Tavia half-turned, sneaking a furtive glance at his eyes.

"What did I say? No. More. Sparring! You're going to burst any day, Tavia. I won't have you going into labor with a sword in your hand." Anders wrapped his arm around her waist, pinning her with his best 'I only want what's right for you' look. He was still perfecting that one.

"I'm still at least a month away," she replied sensibly. "And I'm bored to tears making you supper and mending your socks."

"That's not true and you know it," Anders said, relenting. "You love mending my socks."

He backed away, letting her open the door on a miffed Leliana. Her hair had grown out, but she kept it in an auburn braid down her back. Anders glimpsed Nathaniel's sharp, pale face over her shoulder.

"Bonjour!" Leliana called. Being back in Orlais was bringing out her inner… _Orlesian_. "Thank you so much for inviting us to dinner. How exciting!"

Anders watched his wife stifle a chuckle. He raised one eyebrow, realizing he had been duped. Again.

"No… fighting then?" he squeaked. Leliana stared. Behind her, Nathaniel was covering his mouth as he tried not to laugh at Anders's expense.

"Are you _mad_? In her condition?" she looked at Tavia and clicked her tongue. "What have you been feeding him? His brain's turned to mush."

"I'm right here, you know. I can hear you."

Anders retreated to the kitchen. He couldn't cook to save his life, but stirring a pot ineffectually was better than listening to Leliana berate him. This was one of her favorite topics – how little he knew about parenthood. Meanwhile, she cooed and simpered over Tavia, stroking her stomach, exclaiming over how beautiful she looked. But Anders? Anders was a pariah, an idiot, as if he had tripped and fallen on top of Tavia and gotten her pregnant _by accident_. He would be the first to agree that, yes, being a mage and an apostate and a formerly-wanted man, he wasn't exactly choice dad material. But on the other hand, Leliana had been present at their hand-clasping. Had she dozed off at the part where Anders promised to do anything and everything in his power to keep Tavia safe?

Tavia appeared like a shadow behind him. A mean, clunky warrior and pregnant to boot and she could still sneak him up on him when he was in a foul mood. He felt her little hand go about his bicep and squeeze. Out in the dining room, Nathaniel and Leliana were taking their seats.

"I told her you had just finished lecturing me about sparring," Tavia said with theatrical gravity. "You are avenged, ser mage."

Ander smiled down at the soup, feeling tingly all over. He turned and kissed her deeply on the lips. It defied reason, really, how quickly he went from grumpy to aroused…

"My lady," he whispered, "I am in your debt."

"Stop kissing in there! That soup isn't going to ladle itself!"

"Could you bring out the bread?" Tavia asked, knocking him into action with a little bump of her hip. Anders sidled away, reluctantly, and dropped the crusty loaf of bread into a napkin-lined basket and brought it out to the dining table. Leliana and Nathaniel perked up at his entrance. Anders took a seat next to Nathaniel. They were, technically, friends now and Anders was glad for it. Previously, when they lived together as Wardens, Nathaniel had seemed fragile, impenetrable with his private grief. Finding someone to share his life with had changed Nathaniel for the better.

Nathaniel turned to him, his wide mouth set in a grim line.

"How are you holding up, Anders?"

Now _that_ was a strange question.

"Holding up?" Anders drew his eyebrows together. "How do you mean?"

"You aren't even a little nervous? Having a child is a big change…"

Anders smiled and shrugged and leaned back against his chair. He was tempted to rest his arms behind his head and kick up his feet as he so often did, but he restrained himself for the sake of his guests. Tavia wouldn't appreciate him getting dirt on the table immediately before they ate.

"I'm not nervous," he said truthfully. "I'm excited. Wouldn't you be?"

Nathaniel looked terrified at the suggestion. His gray eyes grew wide and he swallowed what was probably a horrified shriek in the making. Luckily, with Leliana's eyes burning into his cheek, Nathaniel pulled himself together.

"Fatherhood is daunting for any man."

_Nice save, Howe._

"From what I can tell, we're lucky. Elves have a much easier time of things. I visited the library at Val Chevin - you wouldn't believe the size of the place, Nathaniel – books everywhere, you could get lost in there for days. Anyway, I unearthed a few dusty old tomes on elf physiology. They were wonderfully informative." Tavia entered, bringing with her a tray of bowls that smelled divinely of rosemary and leeks. "The pictures weren't so bad either." He winked at Tavia. "So, no, it's not so frightening, Nathaniel, not when you know what you're in for."

"Maker, Anders. You're scaring me." Nathaniel shuddered, ripping off a hunk of bread and holding it reflectively in both hands. He stared at it for a moment, as if the crust held the answers to the universe. Ser Pounce-a-lot stalked into the dining room like a tiny orange shadow, no doubt summoned by the Siren song of tasty and forbidden food.

"Did you put Anders under some kind of spell? An enchantment?" Nathaniel asked Tavia, accepting his bowl of soup with a polite little nod.

"I'm afraid not," Tavia said mildly. "I'm no mage."

Anders beamed. It gave him immense pleasure to unseat Nathaniel, who seemed convinced that Anders should have already accumulated a barn full of mistresses. Proving to be a good husband was the fastest way to tie Nathaniel's tongue into a stuttering knot.

"Tuck in, everyone," Tavia said, leaning over her own soup, "or it'll go cold."

The meal went by silently, as it always did when the food was hot and good. Anders only paused to cool his mouth with a gulp of wine or dab his chin with a napkin when soup droplets landed there. Pounce hopped up into his lap in anticipation of dessert.

"It's pleasing to see you have a healthy appetite," Leliana said with a giggle. She was referring to Tavia, who had hastily cleaned out her bowl of soup and was now mopping up the dregs with an enormous piece of bread. His wife blushed and shrugged. Anders had indeed noticed that her appetite had reverted to Warden-sized proportions - destroying an entire pan of shepherd's pie was easily-accomplished and even expected.

"I'll fetch dessert," Tavia said, scooping up their empty bowls and disappearing into the kitchen. She was still shy about some aspects of her pregnancy, her mammoth appetite being one of them. Anders cleared his throat and shot Leliana a look that said, "Drop it."

It was tempting to join Tavia in the kitchen and sneak a clandestine kiss, but he knew it was his job to keep the guests occupied. Tavia enjoyed cooking and playing hostess, which Anders found adorable, given her almost uncanny ability to spread mayhem and bloodshed. He was also forbidden from intervening, considering the two times he attempted to cook, he burned first his fingers and then half of his sleeve. So instead, he scratched Pounce's ears and leaned back further in his chair. If his robes required a tight belt he would've loosened it.

"You visited Val Chevin?" Nathaniel said casually, sipping his wine. "You're up for travel then?"

"Some," Anders replied. "But I'm not sure I'll venture much more. Just going to the library made me paranoid someone would recognize me as an apostate… Felt like there was a big red 'mage' sign around my neck. Everybody was staring at me, nobody was staring at me… Miserable."

Leliana reached across the table, took his hand, and squeezed.

"I'm sure it was all imagined, Anders. It's been six months – surely you're not still afraid?"

"It's different for you two," Anders replied. "Neither of you are mages and neither of you personally insulted the King of Ferelden."

Leliana took her hand back and shared a long, unreadable look with Nathaniel. They could sulk all they wanted, but it was true. There was clearly no 'guilt by association,' since Nathaniel had done well when presented at court in Val Royeaux. Through Leliana's substantial if questionable contacts, Nathaniel had secured a respectable stewardship to one of the larger households in Val Royeaux. If he played his cards right, and Anders was certain – under Leliana's guidance – he would, then Nathaniel would be a full-fledged chevalier in less than two years.

The irony was not lost on Anders; his wife had once been poised to be second in command in Ferelden, now they lived in a tiny cottage while their friends rose in fame and fortune. It stung, he decided, but only just a little. And the wound was quick to heal, especially when Tavia was returning and bringing with her a glistening rum cake. He avoided the obvious bun in the oven joke and instead greeted his wife with a wide smile. He wasn't going to dwell on the fact that they were teetering on the edge of poverty. He wasn't going to ruin the evening for her by probing Nathaniel about his life at court. In fact, he didn't need to. Nathaniel was wearing his position, covered in velvets and brocade that could feed a small family (or them) for a month.

"What did I miss?" Tavia asked, though Anders was sure she had overheard.

"We were learning about Anders's new hobby," Nathaniel replied, spreading out his napkin with a noble little flourish, "apparently he's becoming quite the authority on Elves."

Tavia laughed. "As if that was ever in question."

While Anders was admittedly devoted to gorging himself on cake, he didn't miss the tiny nudge Leliana gave Nathaniel. Anders stopped long enough to pin them with a look of his own.

"Something the matter?" he asked slowly.

"Oh no," Leliana replied, splitting her piece of cake into dozens of miniscule bites. "We just… Well we thought you might want to come with us to the spring fair in Val Royeaux."

Anders didn't need to be holding Tavia's hand to know that she was growing cold all over. Her fork clattered to the table. She quickly picked it back up and stared resolutely at her plate.

"It's not _in_ Val Royeaux," Leliana immediately corrected herself, "It's outside the town walls. A good distance away, actually. I know you're not eager to travel, but it shouldn't be missed – the musicians, the merchants, the food! _Magnifique_. And I worry about you, Tavi. Cooped up here, afraid to go out… It isn't healthy."

Anders clamped his teeth down. His initial instinct was to snap at her for telling Tavia what was and was not healthy for her. Anders wondered if Tavia's fork was going to break in half, given the way she was clutching it.

"That's kind of you," she said at last, ever the diplomat, "But I don't think we should go. Val Royeaux is just too dangerous for us right now. Perhaps next year."

Tavia had tried valiantly to keep the note of disappointment out of her voice, but Anders heard it and it stabbed at his conscious. It's not that their lives were dull exactly, but they certainly weren't leading a life of high intrigue, not anymore at least. Before the baby, they were free to roam the countryside, taking on small jobs or dangerous ones, whatever suited their moods. Anders silently chastised himself for using that phrase. 'Before the baby' – it was a dangerous way to think and meaningless. Still, he regretted their isolation, their paranoia.

"Leliana is right," Anders said quietly, darkly. He could feel his wife's eyes drilling into him. "We should go out, Tavi, and have fun. If we don't have to go inside the city walls…"

"Anders, need I remind you that Val Royeaux is the _seat_ of the Chantry? Seat of the _Divine_? Land of retired templars?" Tavia was staring at him, desperate for his cooperation. But sometimes he needed to disagree… For her own good, he hoped.

Leliana and Nathaniel were silent, sensing their opinions were not welcome in this private quarrel.

"They're retired. They'll be old… And slow… and fat!" Anders grinned but nobody laughed at his joke. "We can be discrete, love. Think about it - who would look twice at a couple of quiet, unremarkable travelers from the country?"

* * *

She loved him. Sometimes it took what little energy she had left in her body to make that fact stick in her mind. For all intents and purposes, Tavia was reading a book. In actuality, she was staring through it. Anders had undermined her, tricked her, and all under the banner of 'her own good.' She hated when he did that. If it was for her own good, shouldn't she recognize it herself?

There was nothing good for her in Val Royeaux, of that much she was certain. And yet here she was, cranky and sulky because, like a typical wife, she had crumbled under her husband's insistence. And she knew why.

_ No, you're being foolish._

But the idea had been planted in her head. There was no getting around it. What if Anders was bored? Not just with quaint, country life, but with _her_? They had chosen to restrict their stomping grounds, and perhaps now they would pay for such a decision. Tavia cursed herself silently. She should have allowed him more freedom, encouraged him to go to town and explore. Now, instead of relatively risk-free outings to Val Chevin and surrounding villages, they would go directly to the viper's den. Anders was a fool if he expected to avoid templars altogether. They congregated in Val Royeaux. They were drawn there. At least a few would make it down to the fair and even with his phylactery destroyed, there was no guarantee he was safe.

Tavia sighed. She was comforted by the familiar night-time sounds in their home – crickets chirping outside the window in friendly competition with the frogs, owls hooting in distant trees, water trickling in the room next door, the wind rustling across the grass… Leliana and Nathaniel had left after dessert, choosing to take the ride back to the inn at Val Chevin. Tavia knew it was because of the thunder cloud hanging over her head. She didn't make much of a hostess when she was busy shooting daggers at her husband. Said husband was still washing up next door and taking far longer than usual. She had frightened him away, her foul mood driving him to wash his face for half an hour.

Ser Pounce-a-lot, an unexpected ally, leapt onto the bed and nestled in beside her. She stroked the cat's back, grateful for the company. The silly tabby had a way of softening her up. Tavia preferred dogs, but Pounce was a bit canine in his ability to sense when his human masters were feeling less than rosy. His warm little body scooted closer to her. She leaned back into the pillows she had piled up against the bed's headboard.

_ Thank you. At least one living creature is on my side._

Tavia Tabris, Scourge of the Darkspawn, Hero of Ferelden, Warden Commander, had been utterly routed by her friends and by a particularly crafty pair of brown puppy dog eyes. Since when had she become such a coward? She felt a twinge in her abdomen and placed her hand over it. Right. Since she was now carrying a new life inside of her. Arguing exhausted her, the idea of fighting repelled her… She had retreated into defensive mode, choosing to bow to inferior sense to keep the peace. Because that's what she wanted for her little one – peace. She had hardly known any peace in her life and, judging by the fool's errand she had just agreed to, that was not about to change.

Weren't pregnant women infallible? Weren't her needs more important than Leliana's desire to have a friend to shop with or Nathaniel's wish to look popular in front of his court friends? And why was her husband suddenly taking the opposing viewpoint? They were usually so solid, so perfectly in agreement…

Tavia tried to read again, noticing that her sour mood was making the baby kick like a mule. _Calm yourself, mother_, he seemed to say, _you're making me bloody anxious_.

For some reason, in her head, the baby always had Anders's voice and attitude.

"Is it safe? You haven't got a knife pointed at the door, I hope…"

And there was the man himself. Tavia held her book, determined to look like she hadn't just been stewing in her own angry juices for half an hour. Pounce brushed his nose against her wrist in solidarity.

"No knife," she called back, "Not yet."

The door in front of her and to the right creaked open. Their chamber was dark except for the moonlight and the plate of candles burning on the bedside table. The wreath of dried thistles and thyme that hung above their bed had long ago lost its scent, but every now and then, when the wind blew through the room at the right angle, the fragrance of summer lived again. This happened at that moment, coinciding with Anders's glossy blonde head appearing around the door. At first, she could only see his eyes, which peered out at her, wide and slightly guilty.

"I'm not armed," Tavia reminded him quietly, looking intently at the margins of her book, "But I'm afraid you've been replaced."

Anders stepped fully into the room, both eyebrows raised in question. He glimpsed his cat curled up against her and blew out an exaggeratedly defeated breath.

"Sod it. I can't compete with him. I'm done for."

"He _is_ awfully cute."

"I'm in no position to argue," Anders admitted. Tavia risked a glance over her book, knowing that her black mood would be swept away by him at any minute. They never stayed angry at each other for long, despite Tavia's immense talent for holding a grudge. He melted her in every way, which was probably why she had fallen for him in the first place. Not many men, or cute fuzzy animals, or _anything_, did that to her.

But that didn't matter. She was _supposed_ to be reading. Tavia tried to find her place. It was horribly dull really, a bunch of dry, scientific explanations for why Elves had a slightly shorter gestation period. It went on to compare the seven-month gestation period with that of the humans' nine months and blah, blah, blah…

Was he naked? No, still in his shorts.

_ Blast it._

Anders was calculating, she could give him that. Purposely, she was sure, he had stripped down to his scant underthings. As she watched, (secretly, of course, for she was playing at studying her book) Anders reached up and took the band out of his hair. He combed his big hands over his scalp, making the blonde strands cascade in pretty waves across his forehead.

Even in the semi-darkness, Tavia could see the hard, firm lines of his body. A scar wound around his taut shoulder like a snake, dipping down into his broad smattering of chest hair. Her eyes followed the dark trail of hair down, south of his navel, where she found her suddenly _rapt_ attention split between the creases of his pelvis and the shape of his hipbones. Without hesitation, he climbed onto the bed, shoveling Pounce out of the way with one motion of his hand. The cat fell with a thump onto the floor and trotted away indignantly to find a new bed.

"Replaced me, have you?" Anders muttered, crawling in beside her. He slid under the sheets and soon brought his own warmth to rest against her side. Tavia reminded herself that they were in a fight. She was angry with him. Furious. She would not let him burn away her defenses so easily. He deserved a tongue-lashing for the ages.

Mm, tongue-lashing.

_No_.

"Do you forgive me, pretty wife?" He kissed her ear, another calculated move. An elf was all but helpless when their ears entered the picture. Tavia lowered her book and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was so marvelously handsome - all amber eyes and cheekbones and that nose that reminded her of a goshawk. Lovely… Especially with his hair falling around his shoulders and his bare chest pressing into her arm. She wished her night gown would evaporate.

_Furious, remember? Spitting mad!_

Anders kissed her ear again, his tongue darting into the inner coil. She shivered, and bit down on her lip and tried weakly to scoot away from him. His hands protested, holding her close. She saw the candlelight glint off of the simple silver band on his ring finger. _Husband_.

"Is it so wrong," he began in a low, gravelly voice, "that I want to buy you sparkly things and ply you with honey cakes?"

When Tavia said nothing, he frowned. "Isn't that like a magic word or something when you're pregnant? I say 'honey cakes' and your clothes fall off? No?"

"Anders…"

"_Honey cakes, honey cakes, honey cakes_…"

She kissed him, if only to still his wagging tongue. Anders was quick to push that tongue into her mouth and possess her with the same eagerness he had shown on their first embrace. Tavia could still remember Anders's scandalized look when she informed him that the bacon she had been kissing from his nose had never been there at all. Maybe he was right. Maybe they _had_ grown boring and complacent. Once upon a time they were sneaking kisses under King Theirin's roof, killing Darkspawn together, torturing each other with long, chaste baths, _saving the world_…

"I'll need help with these laces," Tavia whispered into his lips, "It appears your strange and wonderful words have worked, apostate."

"Oh sweetheart, it makes me so hot when you remind me of my criminal past," Anders moaned into her ear. She laughed and swatted at him but did not resist when he began pulling open the loose corseting on her gown. Tavia tossed her book aside, not even remembering what it was about.

As he freed her of the nightgown and kissed a trail of scalding kisses down her neck, Tavia grasped his neck tightly.

"Say we'll be careful, Anders," she whispered, afraid again. "Say everything will be alright."


	2. Two

**Two**

**Note**: A huge thanks to Zute for The Wanket ™ idea. A truly inspired portmanteau… Thanks for the favorites and reviews, I'd love to know what you all think of this chapter and those to come!

*

Krag met them at the gate.

No matter the weather – cold, rain or fine – Krag donned his heavy maroon robes and cloak. He moved like a droplet of blood in water, oozing across the clear sky toward them, favoring his right leg and leaning hard on a knobby staff.

Krag draped himself over the unfinished wooden fence that marked the border between his land and theirs. A shaggy, dark form wiggled around on his shoulder. After a moment, a beak emerged, materializing out of the mass of black feathers it was preening. Like its master, Krag's raven wore a scar over its right eye, but unlike Krag, the raven had lost that eye altogether. In Krag's case, the scar followed the line of his pale eye, drooping down like a fleshy teardrop.

"Leaving," Krag observed. He was chewing on something, tobacco or the end of breakfast, Tavia couldn't tell. She raised her hand in greeting, swaying a little in the saddle. They had outfitted their one pony for the journey to Val Chevin, where they would meet up with Leliana and Nathaniel before continuing on to the spring fair.

Anders led the pony. Ser Pounce-a-lot sat in the roomy saddle bag on Tavia's right. He poked his furry head out now and again to investigate the butterflies and bees that zoomed by. At the sight of Krag's crow, the cat hid again.

They stopped at the gate. Krag was their one neighbor and the closest thing to a real acquaintance they had made since moving to Orlais. He was not, in anyway, an Orlesian. His accent was not familiar to Tavia, and when questioned, Krag was vague. "I come from the north," he would say, "where there is snow or mud, never grass." He was spotty on the details, which suited Tavia just fine. She wasn't about to delve into her past for him, either.

"Good morning," Anders said, extending his hand. Krag drew his weathered hand out of his sleeve just long enough to shake once. Then his hand disappeared again, vanishing inside his voluminous red sleeve. Watching Krag and Anders interact reminded Tavia of their journeys throughout Amaranthine. Krag employed the same steely, monotonous speech pattern as Justice. Anders never seemed to know what to make of the Spirit of Justice, and similarly, he never quite knew how to behave around Krag.

"Fine weather we're having," Anders continued cheerfully. "Taking your crow for… a, um, stroll?"

"Stroll?" Krag tested the word as if he had never heard of such a thing. "No," he said gruffly, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "I saw smoke rising from your chimney early this morning. Then I saw the pony. You intend to travel?"

"To Val Chevin," Tavia said, swooping in to help Anders. "We're meeting friends. We might be gone a few days, actually. Would you mind very much checking in on my apple trees? I'd be heartbroken if the deer got to them."

This was a safe topic. Krag knew plants, soil, hard work… When they first took the cottage, Krag had been the one to suggest they plant a vegetable garden and trim down the apple trees that had grown wild. Their initial meeting had been tense, since he had a way of sneaking up silently. Startled, Anders had nearly blown the man's head off with a rolling ball of flames. But thanks to Krag, they had a respectable orchard in the works, and in a few short months they would be pressing apples for cider and using the mash for pies.

"I will stop in, yes."

"I've hung pouches of soap in the trees," Tavia continued. She watched Anders shift anxiously between his feet. He wanted to get a move on. That, and Krag made him uncomfortable. "Just like you said, the deer are staying away."

"I could kill them for you," Krag said bluntly. Anders made a soft, strangled sound. "For the meat," Krag added.

"Oh, that's alright," Tavia replied, laughing. "They're so gentle. I couldn't. I think it's a mother and her two little ones. The soap should keep them away for now."

"As you wish." Krag bowed slightly at the waist.

"Be well," Tavia said. Anders took the hint, clicking his tongue at the pony and reaching for the gate pin. "And thank you for looking after the trees."

Krag bowed again and moved aside. He and his crow watched them pass through with identical expressions. Anders guided the pony down the worn dirt path leading away from the cottage gate. Krag's house was the only other farm visible from the winding road. His cottage looked like little more than a brown smudge against the pale blue horizon. Anders had spoken truly. It was fine weather, especially for travel – a mild wind, good coverage from the sun and no threatening clouds waiting to be swept in.

They were silent until they reached the hill top overlooking their cottage. The path led straight down, plunging into a valley of tall grasses. From there, it would be an easy five mile walk to the outer villages of Val Chevin.

They crested the hill and began the slow, careful descent.

"I don't know how you tolerate that creepy git," Anders muttered. "If I catch him peeping in the windows, I swear to the Maker I'll set that feathered friend of his on fire."

"He's not so bad. I think his… conversation skills are in need of a polish." Tavia watched as Pounce emerged from the saddle bag, two tiny paws braced on the lip. He cast a curious glance in every direction, probably checking for more crows. Despite Anders's sincere attempts at training Pounce to become, in his words, "a vicious attack-kitten," the lessons in barbarity never took. Pounce wasn't even a very good mouser. Tavia often found tiny, tell-tale trails of droppings in their pantry. He was similarly frightened of crows, like the one that followed Krag everywhere.

"Krag must be an exile," Tavia said thoughtfully. "He never speaks of his home land or of any family. And yet I do not sense he is bitter… Perhaps his exile was self-imposed, like ours."

"I would hardly call this exile," Anders said with a scoff. He dropped back to walk closer to her, his free hand molding around her calf through her skirt. "Isn't exile supposed to be nasty and depressing? I mean, if we'd sent ourselves off to row on some smelly pirate galley, or confined ourselves to a one-room sty in Denerim… Or better yet! We could've remained at court and waited hand and foot on King Arsehole until he murdered one or both of us..."

Tavia kicked his ribs gently. They reached the bottom of the hill and quickened their pace, the valley flattening out before them, the fields on either side of the road vibrant with wildflowers. "You're right. This isn't exile. It's… well, what is it then?"

"No, let's call it exile. It sounds so exciting and mysterious."

"Very well. Exile it is."

Tavia took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet, meadow scent that floated up out of the grass. It was a perfect day. There were many days like this one in Orlais. Leliana had been telling the truth after all; it really was like a dream. Tavia rarely caught herself reminiscing or wishing for more time in Ferelden. The climate here was unbelievable, mild and accommodating, with just the right amount of romantic stormy nights. So far she had enjoyed fall and winter, and spring was turning out to be a delight, too. If too many Fereldans wandered over, she mused, they would start another war of conquest simply for the pleasure of Orlesian summers.

"Hey. Are you day dreaming?" Anders asked, poking her ankle.

"Indeed, I am... Was."

"Of?"

"Oh, you know, the single life, romance…. Do you think there will be handsome chevaliers at the fair?" She grinned, knowing that any second she would see an angry flush creep around to the back of his neck. Anders whipped his head around, his ponytail bouncing against his cheek.

"I do hope so. The prettier the better. Handsome lads are always the most fun to burn to a crisp." As if to demonstrate his eagerness, a tiny puff of flame erupted in his palm. "It's an incredible smell – flesh broiling in red hot armor. Like a pig roast! But with more screaming… Ahh, the screaming…"

"You'll put them all to shame, ser mage," she said gently. "But let's keep the screaming to a minimum, eh?"

It was only fun to tease Anders until he rewarded her with an outburst. If she continued the game for too long he became sullen and irritable. Besides, the way Anders responded to flattery was just as cute as the way he responded to ribbing. He threw his head back to look at her, beaming, preening, his eyes closed as he waited for her to stroke his hair. She did, and he nuzzled into her palm. Sometimes, it was like being married to a peculiarly witty peacock.

"But what if they're really, _really_ handsome?"

"It doesn't matter," Tavia said with a shrug. She followed that with a sincere sigh. "I've had more than enough of the big, armored and dimwitted type."

"Really? _I_ can't seem to get enough of it." Anders smirked up at her. She was tempted to draw steel, knowing her swords were tucked behind her, secured to the saddle, easily reachable. Instead she returned his smirk, albeit with a touch more ice.

"I'll grant you big," she said, patting her rounded belly, "and – usually - armored, but dimwitted? Hm… Perhaps you're onto something there. I _did_ marry a skirt-swishing apostate…"

"Low blow, elf. Low blow."

"Truly?" She laughed. "Maybe I'll show you the real meaning of low blow," Tavia said suggestively, nudging him again with her boot. Anders looked up at her hopefully. "_Later_."

"Are you sure?" Anders whined. "This grass looks awfully comfortable."

"Certainly, if you enjoy sustaining bug bites to your – Ah, look! Val Chevin."

Anders followed her pointing finger, bringing the pony gradually to a stop. For a moment they looked on in silence, appreciating the view. Tavia tipped her head back, the sun tickling her chin and neck. A day like this one could go on forever and she'd be perfectly happy. Perhaps taking the trip to Val Royeaux wasn't such a bad idea after all.

The pony began walking again, its hooves pattering gently on the dirt path. The distant village wall spread out like a banner unfurling. In a few hours they would make the inn and Tavia could rest. She was already so very tired. It appeared she would have to take her excitement in doses, so as not to exhaust herself or the little life she carried along for the ride.

* * *

This wasn't at all how he imagined their first night on the road.

It bothered Anders for several reasons that, despite their relocation and isolation, letters from Amaranthine managed to find their way to Tavia anyway. Some were not even from Amaranthine and came embellished with elaborate postmarking from places he had never even heard of. The letters never came by rider, which was a relief, but by tenacious little birds that arrived droopy and hungry, scrolls tied to their craggy feet.

Anders returned to their suite at the inn with a tray of food for them. He had asked for enough to feed four people, which amused the cook and the serving girl. They said nothing outright, however, having glimpsed Tavia and her particular state when they first arrived. They made the inn in good time, tethering the pony outside Le Liège Bleu, Val Chevin's most out of the way inn and tavern. The name of the place referred to the blue corks they used to cap their rather excellent wine. Anders had a bottle of said wine tucked under his arm, and was in the process of lamenting that he would be drinking alone when he opened the door to their room…

There was his wife, invitingly beautiful in her determination and focus, and before her was a spread of letters, which was not nearly as inviting or beautiful. Anders sighed to make his distaste known. Tavia smirked, but did not look up from her work. She would need to light some beeswax candles soon, as dusk was not far off. Leliana and Nathaniel would arrive any moment and Anders hoped she would at least have the courtesy to finish her business before they came to dine.

Anders deposited the tray of food at her elbow, making damn sure it covered up the letter she was reading. He pulled the cork free of the wine and sat down hard on the bed.

"Look what you're doing, woman. You're driving me to drink."

Absentmindedly, she pushed the tray aside slightly and then reached for a grape.

"You'd drink anyway," Tavia remarked distractedly, "Letters or no letters."

"Fine, but now I'm drinking to drunkenness, and that's definitely because of the letters."

"Listen to this," she said, ignoring him and sitting back in her chair. She had changed out of the sturdy riding skirt and tunic and into a softer, more romantic gown. Anders would never tell her that he was thrilled to see her wearing more dresses… She couldn't exactly slip into her tight riding breeches and plain leather corsets with her stomach. That suited Anders just fine, since he liked to have her bare legs so delectably unadorned.

"'Commander,'" she read, and then paused, rolling her eyes, "He _still_ addresses me that way, even though _he_ is the Warden Commander. Can you believe it?"

"Absolutely."

"'Commander,'" she read again, "'The Keep is taxed to its limits by the King's demands. We have not the men or resources to properly come to his aid. He pushes our soldiers to their limits in the Deep Roads. I fear he has gone mad, pursuing an enemy that does not exist...'"

"Poor Varel," Anders said, meaning it. He took a swig from the bottle. Incredible wine – rich, swirling, tart with just a hint of blackberry sweetness. Too bad he wouldn't be able to enjoy it, Tavia was working herself up, approaching that all-too familiar "on the warpath" look. He didn't need to see her face to anticipate that mood; the back of her neck was perfectly visible with her shaved head. He could see the tension mounting in her muscles.

On more than one occasion, when Anders saw how these missives tortured Tavia, he was tempted to write a letter of his own - one to Varel and one to the King...

_Hello,_

_LEAVE HER ALONE._

_That is all,_

_Anders_

But it never happened because these were _her_ letters, her affairs. Nobody was asking Anders to come back. He really was a hopeless fool. He had expected these annoyances to disappear completely once they were free of Amaranthine. But no, this was Tavia's punishment for defying the King. Alistair might not know her exact location, but he knew Varel's, and hurting Varel was the perfect way to indirectly get to Tavia. Anders shuddered as a hideous truth reared up to taunt him: It didn't matter where they went or what they did, they would never be free of the King's wrath.

Anders sat up straighter. He wasn't about to let Alistair torture her from afar. Anders was her husband now, and it was his job to protect her from these threats. He wouldn't have her swept back into their old life, their cluttered, busy, dangerous life. There was a child to think about now, and Maker help them if Alistair ever found out about _that_ little detail. He set the wine bottle down on the floor, a bit sad to be parted from it, and went to their packs. They stacked them against the window, to be dealt with later or not at all. He could hear Tavia's quill scratching across a piece of parchment. She wrote impossibly fast. How a city elf with little education and no formal training could write like that, he had no idea. It probably had something to do with her voracious appetite for books. He would ask her about it sometime, but right then he needed to ponder less and act more.

It only took a second to find what he was looking for. Anders had packed it underneath his clean robes, mostly as a joke, but now it seemed utterly essential. Amazing, how handy this dingy old thing managed to be. He carefully pulled out the folded blanket and shook it out. It smelled like their cottage, gauzy and floral and familiar. Smirking, he tiptoed over to Tavia's chair and draped the blanket - lovingly rechristened the wanket - over her shoulders.

"Thank you, love," she said quietly, still writing. "It is a bit chilly in here."

"You're welcome," Anders said, trying hard not to betray the amusement in his voice. He kissed the side of her head and retreated to the bed. He took up the wine bottle again, settling in for the show, knowing from experience that it would only take a moment or two for the enchantment to kick in. The tension seemed to smooth out of her shoulders and her hand, gradually, began to slow. Her head perked up a bit as the full bent of his prank became clear and realization dawned. Anders grinned into the bottle, watching her sway a little in her seat.

Outside, Anders could hear Nathaniel's booming voice as he called to the groom. Their friends had arrived.

"Oh goodness," Tavia whispered, staring blankly out the window, "I can't for the life of me remember what I meant to write."

*

**Note**: We're getting to the meat of the plot, I promise, just takes a bit to get there. :)


	3. Three

**Three**

The road to Val Royeaux was long and, while helped by the exquisitely beautiful countryside and the pleasant company of a bard, tremendously wearisome.

Tavia had overestimated her own vigor. Half a year ago, such a journey would not have presented much of a challenge. She had walked the length and breadth of an entire country once, the journey generously sprinkled with danger. Now the simple act of riding a pony made her tired. She could see that this concerned her friends, and she was grateful for the frequent stops and polite questioning from Nathaniel, but truthfully, it embarrassed her. It was constantly surprising and depressing how weak she had become.

Perhaps because he knew it would upset her, Anders rarely commented on this aspect of her condition. He blithely ignored her exhaustion, taking care of her but never pointing out that he was doing so. It was hard to appreciate this kind of attention because she so badly wanted to be stronger and better and above that kind of pampering.

And so she was understandably worried that by the time they reached the fair, she would be too worn out to enjoy the festivities. She wavered between excitement and regret, never knowing which mood would greet her upon waking. The only constant was Anders, who never let the silence grow too heavy or too ominous. He was a marvel, sometimes, interpreting the smallest changes in her face or bearing and reacting accordingly.

The only way in which he disappointed her was at night, when they made camp either in a nice, sheltered area or at an inn. He would draw her close on the bed roll and whisper about this or that until he fell asleep. They didn't make love, and Tavia wondered if this was another one of his 'for her own good' things. Certainly, she was smaller and slightly less sturdy than a human woman, but she ached for him nonetheless. To be quietly rejected with such predictable frequency made her even more self-conscious of her looks. He had never complained about her pregnant body before, and indeed seemed to be fascinated and aroused by it, but now perhaps, with the baby's arrival imminent, he was afraid to hurt her. Painful or not, she desired him.

The road, with Nathaniel and Leliana always at hand, was not the place to grill Anders about this change in their relationship. How exactly was she to broach the subject? _Excuse me, friends, could you please ride over there for a while so I can find out why exactly my husband has become an infuriating celibate?_

Tavia couldn't help it. She retreated inside herself. She let the conversations on the road go on without her, choosing instead to gaze out at the passing countryside. Thankfully, Tavia took comfort in the fact that they were nearing Val Royeaux; a steady place to sleep might be just the thing to encourage Anders to worship her again. Traveling was hard on everybody. Perhaps she was jumping, unfairly, to conclusions.

Leliana had not misspoken when she described the wonders of the fair. Even miles away, Tavia could make out the amazing varicolored profusion of tents. They sprang up like candied mountains, striped green and cerulean and magenta, pennants snapping in the wind and music carrying softly across the distance.

"Val Royeaux," Leliana proclaimed proudly. She and Nathaniel road up ahead, Tavia behind them on her pony and Anders next to her on the mount he had borrowed from Nathaniel. They all shared in a gasp of wonder and surprise. Val Royeaux itself was perhaps even more beautiful than the fair. The city rose up steeply on a snow-white pinnacle of rock. Silvery gates wound up the mountainside, encasing the shining towers and giving the impression of an immense, sugary cake. At the very top, one could see the castle proper, with its crisp, formidable architecture and jagged battlements.

"It's incredible," Tavia breathed, blinking rapidly up at the city. As they came closer, the sounds of the Chantry fluttered down to the ground and across the fair to meet them. They were beautiful, lilting voices that somehow did not interfere with the fair's jaunty bard songs.

The road in front of them was clogged with travelers. Increasingly, they had run into fellow fair-goers on the road, but now all of them, from the lowest peasant to the prettiest lady, collected together on the path. Nathaniel steered them away from the cobbled road, leading them through a sparse crowd of merchants and beggars to a clump of tents separated from the others.

"I've requested accommodations for us with Ser Prideux's party," Nathaniel said, slowing his bay horse. "He was eager to oblige."

Tavia heard a smattering of lively chatter and music from the direction of the private tents. Though they were seemingly plain, canvas tents, one side of each was emblazoned with a bright coat-of-arms, presumably the Prideux crest. They approached the nearest tent, the flap of which was embroidered with the gold Prideux leopard rampant on a pale blue shield. A young boy appeared from inside the tent and ran up to them. He was fresh-faced and sagging under the weight of so many buoyant blonde curls.

"_Bonjour_," the boy said, bowing, "_Bienvenue, mes seigneurs et dames_."

Tavia's Orlesian was decent enough that she understood the boy had made a mistake. He was addressing them as lords and ladies. Perhaps the dear thing hadn't gotten the message that, among them, only Nathaniel had any noble blood. She sniggered, glancing at Anders. He didn't look anything like the nobility she knew and dreaded. In return, he gave her a heart-meltingly crooked smile.

"_Merci_," Leliana said charmingly, descending from her horse with a flounce. The groom bowed to her. She was in her riding leathers, but Tavia knew that would change quickly. Any second, Leliana would turn back into the glittering Orlesian butterfly inside of her bursting to get out.

The groom helped them down, saving Tavia for last, perhaps because he had no clue what to do with her. Anders nudged the boy out of the way, and hooked Tavia around the waist to help her out of the saddle. The groom blushed and bowed and looked grateful for the aid.

"Meal is served in two hours," the groom said, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. His accent was adorably thick and halting. "Please to find basins and linens in your tents."

Nathaniel dismissed him and turned away from the horses. Tavia was careful to take her pack and swords, not willing to be parted from them for even a moment. Besides, Pounce was in the bag and needed a snack and a poke around the grounds. Anders took her arm, perhaps moved to gallantry because of the elegant surroundings. The smell of perfumed cloth was almost stamping out the scent of the meadow. Something meaty and tasty was roasting nearby; Tavia was already drooling from the smoky aroma.

"I'm fit to fall over," Anders muttered, rubbing his backside. "I could use a lot more than two bloody hours."

"But _meal_, Anders," Tavia said, mimicking the groom's accent. "I'm starving."

"When are you _not_ starving?"

Anders smirked down at her, but Tavia had to try very, very hard to muster a smile. She already felt abnormally huge; he didn't need to remind her of it so often. Anders didn't seem to notice her discomfort and continued helping her across the field to their assigned tents. They had been given identical arrangements, right next to Nathaniel and Leliana. Tavia had to wonder if an unmarried couple sharing a tent would raise eyebrows, but the Orlesians were nothing if not polite, so any perceived insult would probably be hidden under their complex layers of Orlesian manners.

"In here, Anders, if you please," Nathaniel said, drawing him away. "You'll have to borrow something of mine. Orlesians are fretful about mages. They're deeply religious. If they suspect you're an apostate it'll be a disaster."

"Are you kidding?" The blood drained from Anders's face. "I have to wear… _pants_?"

"Hose, Anders, and a tunic and doublet and boots, yes." Nathaniel practically pushed Anders into his tent. "I don't like the idea of you stinking up my things, either, but we don't really have a choice now, do we?"

"Yes, we do! There's always a choice! Maker! Tavia, _help me_!"

Tavia laughed as her husband's plaintive cries became muffled by the tent flap closing. She dearly hoped Anders wouldn't give Nathaniel too much trouble. And she had to admit, she was intrigued by the idea of seeing her scruffy mage dressed up as a nobleman. Leliana held the tent open for Tavia and together they stepped inside.

She dropped the pack, letting Pounce wander out for a stretch. Tavia could barely believe her eyes. The grass was completely hidden, covered by thick furs and elaborately embroidered rugs. They crisscrossed haphazardly, giving the illusion of effortlessness. Iron stands had been placed at intervals around the tent with thick candles enveloped in tulip-shaped glasses. A folding, paper wall provided privacy for dressing, and a low bed, heaped with white furs dominated the back wall of the tent. And, as the groom promised, she found two steaming copper basins of water, elevated on granite platforms. A stack of clean and fluffy linens waited beside the basins.

"Welcome to Val Royeaux," Leliana said quietly, clearly pleased by her friend's stunned reaction.

"Thank you for bringing us," Tavia replied. "You were right. These things shouldn't be missed."

"You're not a Warden Commander anymore. You should enjoy life! And since you're in Orlais now, you should enjoy it in _style_." Leliana hugged her, pulling away to do a little spinning dance. "It feels like I'm home," she murmured wistfully, "what a beautiful feeling."

"I'm afraid I'll embarrass you two," Tavia said, dragging herself over to the bed. She sat down, relieved to have something soft and inanimate beneath her bottom. Pounce curled up on a nearby rug. "You and Nathaniel are much more suited to the glamorous life."  
Leliana joined her on the bed. Once, Tavia had been certain Leliana harbored a secret flame for her. But the bard never spoke of it, and Tavia was all-too glad to maintain their close friendship. Leliana took her hand and looked resolutely at the carpets.

"Listen, Tavi, there's something I feel bound to say." Leliana's hand grew warm in her grasp. "You're um… Well, you're going to get a lot of looks tonight and at the fair tomorrow. One, because no woman in Orlais wears her hair like that, and two, because ladies in Orlais are very private. They practically never go out in public when they're with child. It's called _emprisonnement_ - confinement. _Très populaire_ among the elite..."

Tavia sighed. "Great, so I'm the bald-headed bloated elf freak. Got it."

"You misunderstand," Leliana said, giggling nervously. "I said you would get looks, I never said they would be bad ones. The women, perhaps, will be scornful. But the men… Just… consider yourself warned. You are very… _womanly_ right now, yes?" Leliana's eyes darted unmistakably at Tavia's swollen chest. "Orlesian men are powerless when it comes to such things."

Leliana tried to stand but Tavia pulled her back. Pregnant or not, she was strong enough to manage that much. She waited until the bard would look her dead in the eye. "This is a bad idea, Leli. Anders is… He has a temper, you know that. So do I. Maybe it would be best if he and I just had a quiet night here, away from all the… _looks_."

"Nonsense," Leliana said. "These people are not ruffians. They know Nathaniel. They will be gentlemen. I only want you to be ready."

"You should warn Anders about this, too," Tavia said quietly, letting her friend stand. A note of panic was rising in her voice, closing off her throat. This had "accidental massacre" written all over it. She and Anders had a reputation when it came to being insulted, and that reputation was not cuddly.

"And put him on the alert? I don't think so." Leliana strode to the tent flap. "We'll keep him entertained, he won't even notice. I'll be back. You can't go to dinner dressed like that. I have the perfect gown for you, Tavi. You'll never want to take it off."

* * *

"How the _hell_ am I supposed to do up this shirt and then get the toggles right on the tunic, and meanwhile not look puffy and stupid with the doublet on top? And how many sodding laces did they really have to put on these boots? It's like the bloody Boeric Triangle of footwear."

Tavia covered her mouth to keep from laughing; it would only increase the poor man's frustration. Even for Anders, that was an inspired outburst.

"Do they give you lot the robes because buttons are simply too stupefying?"

"You don't get to poke fun, _my lady_. _You_ just pull that frilly thing over your head, lace a few ribbons and have done with it. This is totally unfair. I bet your bloody armor has fewer frogs than this contraption." Anders was, of course, referring to Nathaniel's loaned doublet.

From her vantage point behind the paper screen, Tavia could see him struggling heroically with the wooden toggles on the sleeves. It truly was a complex article of clothing. There were grommets and ties for the sleeves and then a separate set of pearl-inlaid buttons for the front. She decided to come to his aid, finally dressed herself, and stepped out from behind the screen.

"Dear Maker," Anders sighed helplessly, catching sight of her and dropping his hands. "Now that doesn't help the situation. I just want to take my clothes _off_. And yours, too, if you'd like to know."

Tavia smiled and ducked her head. She didn't feel quite right in the fancy gown. She had always been one for leather and linen – sturdy, reliable fabrics that were easy to scrub. Function. No nonsense. That was her comfort zone. But Leliana had gone out of her way to procure a fine specimen of fashion for her. It was pure felicity that the gowns currently favored at court were tight and supportive through the bust and middle and then loose and voluminous over the hips. The dress actually fit well, and Tavia suspected very little alteration was needed to allow for her stomach. The dusty rose pink velvet wasn't something Tavia would've chosen for herself. She gravitated toward dark, striking colors – emeralds and cobalt blues – but even she could admit that the rosy hue brought out the health in her skin and made her cheeks glow.

And the tight corseting under the bust… Well, Tavia was a bit unsettled by the idea of her "womanliness" being so prominently on display.

"You smell _amazing_. What is that?" Anders leaned down to get a better angle on her neck and, she suspected, to get a closer look at her bust.

"Blue lavender," Tavia murmured, trying to ignore the intoxicating heat of his breath. "And magnolias."

"_Must_ we go to dinner?" Anders whined.

"I'm afraid so, ser mage."

Tavia finished doing up the toggles and ties on his doublet. Nathaniel, for all his moaning and groaning, had done a fine job outfitting Anders. In fact, Tavia was surprised at how natural he looked. She had expected her mage to look absurd and awkward in his "pants," but, amazingly, this was not the case. Tavia held him at arm's length.

"Perhaps while we're here," Tavia mused aloud, "We can invest in some new clothes for you."

"Oh?" Anders smiled and waggled his eyebrows. "Does my lady approve?"

She did. Very much so. The rich, soft velvet of the turquoise doublet was silvery in one light and so lustrous it was nearly black in another. The color complemented Anders's fair hair and ruddy stubble. His eyes, too, seemed to sparkle, pure liquid gold against the dazzling blue of his clothes. Nathaniel had even managed to find a matching turquoise band for Anders's hair. The flattering cut of the doublet suited Anders's broad-shouldered, slender-hipped frame. And there was something about a pair of big, gorgeous leather boots on a man…

"We need to leave this tent," Anders said in a strangled voice, "Now."

"Agreed."

Their hasty exit wasn't a moment too soon. Anders gripped her hand as they stepped out into the cool night air. The chill was welcome on her skin, since she soon realized she had become hot all over.

"Remember," Tavia said in a voice that was just as choked as his, "We're Victoria and Allen, rich land owners from Amaranthine."

"Right. I'd nearly forgotten we need new names _and_ new clothes just to mingle with Nathaniel's cronies," Anders said. They walked arm in arm toward the largest of the Prideux tents. It wasn't hard to find, the smell and sound gave it away.

"Just stay calm, don't drink too much. When in doubt, bite your tongue and let Leliana do the talking," Tavia replied. She found that she was trembling, hard, and that the heat of her skin was quickly being replaced with a cold, dreadful clamminess. Anders brushed his lips against her cheek.

"Don't worry, love. I'd suffer a lot worse to deserve the honor of undressing you later."

She smiled and nodded and reminded herself that this was just dinner. Somehow, plunging into battle was easier than this kind of thing. At least she trusted her sword skills – her gossiping and flattering skills? Not so much.

But she had a handsome mage – _man_ – on her arm, and a pretty dress and the most delightful silk slippers. She wasn't going to botch anything if she just kept a level head.

Nothing Leliana had described could prepare her for the Prideux tent. It was not only massive and outfitted as richly as any palace, but it was absolutely filled with people. Beautiful people. Gorgeous, young, bejeweled people. The back of the tent lifted away, opening up onto a dance floor beneath the stars that had been set down just for the occasion. Bards flitted throughout the party, beguiling listeners with their songs and romantic poems. That was the other noticeable thing – the atmosphere of pure romance. There was no mistaking the upright, tall postures of the chevaliers or their sweeping manners. Within a moment, Tavia spied three different knights bending to press kisses against ladies' hands.

"Holy _shit_." Anders muttered.

"My thoughts exactly."

Leliana materialized out of the crowd. Tavia realized that they had been staring, and hovering awkwardly just inside the entrance. They probably looked exactly like dumbstruck yokels from Ferelden. …Which was more or less what they actually were.

Leliana, striking in her vibrant purple gown, slunk toward them. Her hips had gained a lithesome grace Tavia had never seen before. Nathaniel wasn't far behind, looking like he belonged in the tent, dressed from head to foot in purple and ivory, a perfect match to Leliana's gown. Married or not, they were determined to present themselves as a united couple.

"Look at you!" Leliana squealed. She was already slightly drunk. Tavia saw the wine stains on her pert lips. "Spin for me."

Tavia relented, blushing a little as Leliana's high-pitched fawning drew the attention of others. One such other strode directly over, excusing himself with an elegant bow from a semi-circle of ladies. Tavia was married, and happily so, but she wasn't blind. The man that approached them was what she imagined just to the right of the word "courtly" in the dictionary. He embodied the richness and taste on display all around them. His well-fitted doublet was cut diagonally by a gallant half-cloak, the Prideux coat-of-arms emblazoned in the burnished velvet.

At once, he swept a low bow and took Tavia's hand. Before she could so much as inhale, he had pressed his warm, full lips against her knuckles. She blushed. Horridly. Red from the tops of her breasts to the tips of her pointed ears. But she wasn't alone. When he righted himself, the Prideux stranger was red, too. Apparently, without even speaking, she had made him uncomfortable.

_ Well, that was fast. I thought I'd at least have a bite to eat before I humiliated myself._

"_Un grand plaisir, mademoiselle_."

He was either a dolt or he was pointedly ignoring the ring on her finger and sending a rather dangerous and cocky message. So he wasn't blushing at her freakishness after all, but something quite different…

"_Madame_," Tavia corrected him.

"My mistake," he said, switching effortlessly to her native tongue. "You will forgive me, I hope, for my temporary blindness. It is, after all, your fault. You blaze, my lady, like the Maker's own eyes."

The knight kissed her hand again. Anders cleared his throat, exactly at the moment Tavia expected him to. The knight turned at the waist and bowed politely. This was greater courtesy than Anders's position deserved, and accordingly, her mage responded in kind.

_ Crisis narrowly averted._

"I am so terribly rude," the knight said, bellowing with laughter. "I am Ser Bayard, middle son of House Prideux, and your host, though my manners would suggest I am, indeed, naught but the stable boy."

"Victoria," Tavia said, managing not to trip over the name. "And this is my husband, Allen."

"Ah yes," Bayard nodded, turning glittering green eyes on Nathaniel, "The friends you spoke of. How delightful! And how brave of you, Madame, to venture a journey in your delicate condition. I commend your fortitude and your good taste. Please, if there is anything I or my household may provide to ensure your comfort, do not hesitate to ask."

He bowed again, giving Tavia an eyeful of his thick, black curls. Then he was gone, disappearing to attend to his other guests. Either her ears were playing tricks on her, or Leliana actually gave a little swoon of disappointment at his departure.

"Mangy git," Anders muttered, "never heard so many corny lines in all my life."

Tavia smiled, looping her arm through his. "Thank you," she said in an undertone, "For your restraint. For a moment there I thought you might actually just explode and kill us all."

"You're welcome, _Victoria_." He giggled. Now that Bayard was gone, he seemed to be relaxing. "Now let's find that food. The fuller my mouth is the less likely I am to cram my foot in there, too."


	4. Four

**Four**

**Note**: Just a tiny bit of mature content in this one, folks…

*

Warm, bare skin, so much of it and all there for him to enjoy. This could take days to fully investigate. Anders drifted out of the fog of deep sleep with his hands wrapped around a soft little body. Was there any other way to wake up? He tipped his head forward until he felt his nose collide with the hard, familiar line of her neck. His hands smoothed over the roundness of her belly to her naked breasts. She sighed for him. _Maker_. He was impossibly hard.

Something tiny and wet and rough was probing his earring. What the…? Fur, lots of it, pooling around his neck... Anders jerked awake, finding that his hands were empty and that he was covered in cat and a blanket that felt suspiciously like the…

…Wanket.

_Witch_.

_Somebody_ had played a very obvious and nasty trick on him. He expected to find the culprit sitting up in bed beside him, watching with smug satisfaction, but he was alone. Anders rolled onto his back, squishing an indignant fuzz ball into the mattress. His head pounded, thundered. Ah. Yes. It was _that_ feeling. Anders couldn't remember the last time he felt so hung over. His stomach flipped, performing amazing feats of somersaultery as he tried to sit up. Pounce dropped out of sight, meowing at the injustice of being rejected so coldly.

Anders rubbed his forehead, trying and failing to remember what exactly had happened the night before. First there was the doublet situation, which had resolved itself nicely, and then there was Tavia in _that_ dress. Maker, that dress. And that _rack_. Then there was dinner with that flaming asshole of a Prideux knight and drinking, so much drinking. Way too much drinking.

Orlesians certainly knew how to throw a party.

Sometime between Nathaniel giving a rousing, tabletop rendition of "Drunken Sailor" and Leliana leading the tent in "Ninety-Nine Bottles," Anders had lost consciousness. Now he was paying for it. His stomach clenched as he flopped out of bed. Tavia was nowhere to be found. If he racked his brains he remembered that she had indulged in maybe two sips of wine while he and the others…

Oh goodness. She was probably very, very surly right about now. Anders had no idea what time it was, but he could guess that it was late, perhaps almost noon. He stumbled about, wondering where his pants had gone. Then he found one of his old robes in a pile at the foot of the bed and pulled it on. For the fair he would have to dress in Nathaniel's clothes again, but for the moment he would suffer this hang over in the soothing embrace of mage robes.

Anders discovered a jug of orange-scented water on the oak desk and poured himself a glass. Apparently, Tavia had not let the morning go to waste. The desk was scattered with papers – of course – and letters. He wondered if perhaps she had received another pigeon that morning. Those filthy things had a way of finding her no matter how far she strayed from the cottage. Whether she was in the garden, the kitchen or getting supplies at the village market, those little gray wings would swoop in to find her. And _everyone_ knows what swooping means…

He drank his water, which seemed to quell his churning stomach, and picked up one of the letters. It was another pleading missive from Varel. _Bo-ring_. A letter featuring a dazzling script and - if Anders wasn't mistaken - the faintest scent of ambergris caught his eye. He picked it up, his eyes growing wider and wider as he made his way down the page…

_Regretfully, my little elven tulip, I have found nothing of import in the Deep Roads - other than an urgent desire to _leave_ the Deep Roads. It is a place of such dark unpleasantness, such troubling gloom… I'm sure you would agree, this is most unsuitable for a glimmering star such as myself, no? Fear not, I would never be angry with you for sending me to such a place. You have my love, always, and my promise to continue your errand. The King's armies cannot evade me forever, though undoubtedly they will try. I will not fail you, dearest one, and will write again when there is more to report._

Little elven tulip? Dearest one? Anders, sickened, flicked his eyes to the bottom of the page.

_Ever yours,_

_Z._

Whoever this "Z" person was, Anders hoped for his sake he was prepared to meet the Maker. Nobody called his wife a bloody _tulip_ and lived. Nobody. At least his hangover was abating. There was a fire in his belly now, a big one. He dressed, hurriedly, finding that he was much more adept at fastening the weird clothes when he was infuriated. Someone, a servant or maybe Tavia, had brought a fresh set of clothes. Good thing, too, since his things from the night before probably wreaked of stale wine.

Tavia would answer for this letter and explain to him what exactly was going on in the Deep Roads. Then he would discover the identity of "Z" and have a good old fashioned magic barbecue.

Anders stomped his way to the fair, furious, in dire need of a bath and a shave. He didn't care. There were more important things than pleasing Nathaniel and his silly friends. A crow watched him, cawing from a nearby tree, then it followed, hopping along behind him. Navigating the fair, especially in a temper, was a nightmare. People everywhere - jugglers, vendors, bards, dancers, _clowns_… Ugh, bloody clowns… And that idiotic crow at his heels. _Shut up, you stupid bird, shut up!_

His head felt fit to explode. There were so many sounds and sights, so much information cramming into his brain… It took an amazing amount of effort to stay focused on his primary desire. A pity, that he couldn't enjoy all the fair had to offer, but perhaps once he had an explanation, he could calm down and have a pleasant afternoon.

He found her at the chess boards. Not regular, little pieces moving on a small board, but life-sized people dressed as knights and kings and rooks. There were several games in progress, all of them well-attended by the cleanest and prettiest fairgoers. Not a dirty peasant in sight here, just nobles and knights and their attentive servants.

Tavia stood sandwiched between Ser Bayard and another man he didn't recognize. Bayard was leaning over her, Tavia's hand wresting on his wrist. She turned her head and looked up at Bayard, laughing. Anders felt a dangerous compulsion starting in his fingers. _No, no magic_.

He didn't relish the idea of marching up to her and starting a fight. She looked ravishing, resplendent in a gown of deep, burnished copper. The silk was stiff and iridescent, catching the sun and twinkling like a polished stone. Bayard noticed Anders first, turning at the waist and smiling. He beckoned him over. Just his luck, of course, that the best-looking knight in Orlais had to take a shining to his wife. And it _was_ a shining. Anders knew lust when he saw it.

"Darling," Tavia said mildly, taking her hand slowly away from Bayard. "You're up."

"As is his blood, if I'm not mistaken," Bayard remarked. "What troubles you, Lord Allen?"

"Lovely. Right. Hello, could I have my wife for a moment, please? Thank you." Anders took her unceremoniously by the elbow and pulled. Tavia tumbled after him. Bayard glared. Yanking on a pregnant woman probably wasn't going to win him any points, but Anders was seething, about to see red…

Tavia followed him to a copse of trees. The servants who had been loitering there scattered to the winds as they saw Anders stalking towards them. He turned irritated circles for a moment, pacing, trying to get his bearings. He wasn't sure whether to shout at her for the letter or the secrets or for playing _human bloody chess_ with a stranger…

"Have you gone mad?" he hissed. "Have you?"

"One might ask the same of you," Tavia replied. She crossed her arms over her chest defensively, which only made Anders angrier, since it drew his attention to her considerable cleavage.

"Enjoying yourself? How _is_ Ser Bayard this morning?"

This was not maturity. Anders didn't care.

"It's afternoon, actually. And he's fine. So am I, if you were curious."

Anders snorted, finally coming to a stop. He cupped his chin with his hand and stared at her. She certainly didn't look guilty. Shouldn't she look more… more… _upset_, to be caught canoodling with another man? Perhaps he was being irrational, but it didn't look that way to him. Tavia reached up, shielding her eyes from the sun.

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked. "You seemed ill this morning."

"No I'm not bloody alright," Anders replied, trying and failing to keep his voice at a reasonable level. "And thanks for the blanket, by the way, that was a nice touch. Cuckolding me at every possible chance just isn't humiliating enough, eh?"

"Cuckolding… Anders… I don't…" Tavia's brows met, her mouth hanging open in shock. Her face was no longer peachy and gold. It had gone white, pure, sickly white. "What are you talking about? I thought the blanket would be cute, you know, because last night… Well, we didn't really get a chance to… You were _so drunk_, Anders. Do you even remember?"

"_It doesn't matter_. Who is Z?" He took a step toward her. People were beginning to watch them. _Fuck them_, he thought venomously, _fuck them all_.

"It matters, Anders. It matters to me…" Her voice was dropping, turning into a sob maybe, he couldn't tell.

"Z. Who is he? Tell me right now, Tavia."

"Z? Who… Did you read my correspondence?" She gaped at him. Anders felt suddenly ridiculous. He had been prying, that was true, but she shouldn't have to hide things from him. Then again, the letter was right there on the desk, suggesting there was nothing to be embarrassed about…

"I don't owe you an explanation for anything," Tavia said at last. She was growing cold. He remembered this part of her. He hadn't seen it in so long… This was how she used to speak to him, back when she was just "Commander" and he was just "mage." Back before they were lovers. Tavia was withdrawing, shutting down.

"How dare you spy on me?" she continued in an undertone. "How dare you accuse me like this without giving me the smallest chance to explain?"

"Who _is_ he?" Anders had never heard that voice come out before. It was more than a threat, it was a condemnation.

"He's a friend, Anders. Just like Bayard is a friend - which you would already know, if you cared enough to ask."

Tavia turned and went back to the chess players. Her shoulders were taut, her neck so still and stiff it looked like it might snap any second. She pointedly did not turn to look back at Anders. Ser Bayard was there, of course, at her elbow as soon as she returned. He tried to take her hand but found it frozen to her side. Anders watched; Ser Bayard looked over his shoulder, meeting his eyes. He stared at this man he hardly knew, his head full of questions. Anders looked at his wife, _his_ _wife_, and then back at Ser Bayard.

Then he turned, eyes burning, and went back to the tent, feeling like the loneliest man alive.

* * *

Tavia stared straight ahead, watching the chess game so hard her eyes actually stung.

If she turned her head, if she looked at Bayard or at Anders or at anyone, she would cry. She was teetering on that horrible ledge, so emotional and afraid that one wrong or even ugly word would send her into a fit of hysterics. Just as she anticipated, this trip was turning out to be a catastrophe. Something had turned Anders into a raving lunatic. Cuckold. The word drove a spike into her brain. Certainly, Ser Bayard was handsome, but he was fake, deeply fake. He fawned over any pretty woman that paused long enough to have her hand kissed. He was pleasant company, witty and charming, but ultimately, it was like eating raw sugar. Sure, it was sweet at first, but later you felt horribly sick.

And his kind was second only to Z, of course, who could charm a Revered Mother out of her drawers. The idea of Anders actually having good reason to be jealous was ludicrous. She loved him, unconditionally, but now her heart was swelling, hurting…

"Madame," Ser Bayard said gently. He placed his hand on the small of her back. "Are you well?"

"I'm… _Oh_." She swooned. It was the heat, she decided, or the fact that her heart was in the process of systematically falling to pieces. Ser Bayard was quick to catch her, half-carrying her over to a shady spot with a few picnic clothes. He helped her sit and called for a cup of cool water. Tavia drank, her head pulsing as if it were trying to keep time with the nearby dancers.

"I should kill him," Bayard muttered, "for making you react so."

"I'm quite alright," Tavia lied, fanning her face. Her dress felt too tight, too pressing…

"And your husband? Is _he_ quite alright?" She didn't miss the edge in his voice.

"He is, ser knight. Only he is concerned by a pressing matter regarding our estates." It was a stupid lie, but Tavia didn't have the presence of mind to conjure a better one. Ser Bayard's friend, a slick, bald-headed knight called Etienne, joined them on the blanket. He had a hard look to him and said little, but he seemed to be either Bayard's body guard or his closest friend. Etienne handed her a handkerchief.

"You do not share his concern?" Bayard asked.

"Lord Allen is a passionate man, quick to anger. I'm sure he'll regain his wits presently."

"Of course."

The three of them sat in silence. Tavia's mind, by contrast, was anything but silent. Her thoughts tangled, rushing over each other as she tried to decide what to do. Anders would no doubt return to their tent. She should seek him out, try to make him see reason. She was being a bad wife. Marriage took effort, especially when it involved two stubborn hotheads like she and Anders…

"I should… I must return to my tent," Tavia said, returning Etienne's handkerchief. "Please, will you help me to stand?"

Ser Bayard obliged, helping her to her feet. He touched her rather more than she liked, but there was no time to reprimand him. Before she could leave, Ser Bayard took her by the hand. He stared down at her, serious and brooding.

"You are a formidable woman, Madame Victoria. I fear I will lose the chess match without your battle expertise," he said, smiling only a little. "Should your husband prove unwelcoming, I will be here for the entirety of the afternoon."

"You're kind," Tavia said quietly. "Thank you."

"May I escort you at least?" he asked.

"No," Tavia replied, frowning, "This I must do alone."

And she would have, to the best of her ability, only when she reached the tent, Anders was gone. She nearly collapsed when she realized this, but stayed upright only by clinging to one edge of the desk. His pack was gone, his clothing too, and – most ominous of all - there was no sign of Ser Pounce-a-lot. He had left her, left without saying a word…

The tent flap rustled. Tavia turned, finding Nathaniel there, his mouth open in outrage.

"Tavia… Where… Did Anders _leave_?"

"Nathaniel…" She was crumbling again. _Damn this worthless body of mine_. He was with her in three gallant strides, holding her upright, squeezing her. The tears flowed, endlessly, dripping down her cheeks and falling onto Nathaniel's sleeve. He held her until the hysterical sobbing eased a little.

"He thought… He thinks… He has it all wrong, Nathaniel, all wrong." She wiped blindly at her face.

"Calm down," Nathaniel whispered. She clung to his jerkin. He smelled of the fair, of perfumes and roasted meats and – _oh Maker_ – honey cakes. She cried harder.

"What happened between you?" he asked, rocking her. "What could cause this?"

"He's jealous. He read a letter I received from an old friend." It was difficult to talk between the sobs, but she did her best. "He's… He calls me these silly names. It's just the way he is, he treats everyone that way. But Anders… Oh Maker, he thinks I'm _in love_ with someone else."

"But you're not?" Nathaniel asked.

"No. _What_?" Tavia blinked up at him, furious.

"I just… I always sort of thought Anders was a fluke. You're… Well, you're you and he's who he is… I suppose never understood it." He squeezed her again. "Forget it. That was the wrong thing to say, stupid, idiotic... If only Leli were here, she's so much better at these sorts of things…"

As is summoned for a stage cue, Leliana appeared. She rushed to them, prying Tavia out of Nathaniel's arms. Leliana, it turned out, was a much more sympathetic listener. She brought Tavia to the bed and soothed her forehead, wiping the tears that refused to stop falling.

"Nathaniel," she said gently, still stroking Tavia's forehead, "Saddle your horse, please, and go after him. He can't have gone far. He may not have even taken the horse. Bring him back here, please."

Nathaniel nodded and sprung for the door. He looked relieved to have a task, any task. Just standing there, useless, was probably agony for him.

"Am I fool? Did I do something to deserve this?" Tavia whispered. She just wanted Anders back. She wanted an opportunity to explain, to show him that he had nothing at all to worry about. She wanted a night with no wine and no parties, just the two of them… They had been so close to having a lovely evening together the night before. Then the wine started flowing and Anders lost track of himself, and by the time they returned to the tent he couldn't keep his feet. He tumbled into bed, too drunk to undress himself. Tavia had pulled him out of his clothes, in anguish, wanting so badly to feel his kiss and his hands. But he was dozing before she even removed her gown….

"No, you mustn't fret, _mon petit chou_. He'll be back. Don't worry, Tavi. He'll be back."


	5. Five

**Five**

Tavia was not surprised that Ser Bayard Prideux summoned her that evening. She was, however, surprised that Leliana encouraged her to go.

"You mustn't dwell, Tavi. Anders and Nathaniel will return soon. Until then, you must not doubt yourself into a miserable mood."

It was too late for that. She was already miserable. But she let Leliana dress her and fix her teary face.

"I'll go with you," Leliana said, braiding her auburn hair into a tight rope over one shoulder. "And if you want to leave, we'll leave."

Tavia was almost glad for the distraction. Every minute felt interminable. She was driving poor Leliana mad with her pacing and sulking and crying. When she wasn't doing one of those things, she was thinking aloud, trying to work out how exactly everything had gotten so tangled up. And she felt terrified to be confronted with the possibility of raising a baby on her own. It would kill her. She couldn't look into the face of their child without being constantly reminded of Anders. And given her luck, the babe would probably resemble him to an infuriating degree.

And so Tavia let Leliana escort her to Ser Bayard's tent. He had extended the invitation for a meal and some light entertainment. The Prideux family invested heavily in musicians and bards, and perhaps listening to a few songs and tales would ease her troubled mind. All of it would probably feel hollow, however, without Anders there to give his own cutting commentary and unleash his loud, infectious laughter. When had she become so pathetically dependant?

The baby kicked. _I'm sorry_, she wanted to say, _for all of this confusion_.

The fairgrounds were as noisy at night as they were during the day. At least the private tents were slightly removed, but they themselves provided plenty of merriment and debauchery, adding to the charged atmosphere. Tavia clung to Leliana's promise that they could leave at any time. She already felt exhausted, drained beyond belief, and she might need to collapse into a bed at any second. Her feet ached, her heart ached… But it would undoubtedly be worse to sit alone and stew.

The path leading to Bayard's tent was lined with torches. They blazed, flickering like incandescent dancers in the breeze. Two sentries were posted outside in matching tabards and armor. The tent seemed unusually quiet, but perhaps the musicians were still warming up. As they approached the tent flap, one of the sentries held it open, while the other bowed and said, "Madame Leliana – a Master Armand has requested you attend him next door. He is a bard of some renown and has heard word of your skill. He bid me direct you to his aid."

"His aid?" Leliana repeated, cocking an eyebrow. "How so?"

"He is stuck," the guard said, laughing quietly. "And requires the rhyming prowess of another tale-spinner."

"Can you show me the way?" Leliana asked.

"But of course, Madame." The guard snapped to attention, bowed and extended his hand. Tavia motioned them away.

"I'll be fine," she said, "Just don't be too long."

Leliana nodded and trotted off with the sentry, her auburn braid bouncing against her shoulders. The bard looked thrilled to be personally requested. Prideux's artists were some of the finest in Orlais; if Leliana's presence was required, then she might find a lucrative position in the household. Tavia wouldn't begrudge her this chance to shine. She ducked inside, pleased to find that only a small number of trestle tables had been arranged. It was to be a small affair, attended by only a few. That was good. No huge, coordinated dances, no ice sculptures fashioned to look like Andraste, and no awkward party games. Tavia sighed with relief; she didn't have the strength for mingling with dozens of tittering, gossiping strangers.

Ser Bayard waited in the center of the room. His fingers drummed impatiently on the pommel of his sword. He turned at her entrance and bowed at the waist. He looked magnificent, as usual, shimmering in a cloth of gold doublet with black velvet epaulets. Etienne, his bodyguard and friend, waited nearby. It felt, strangely, as if they had been absolutely still in anticipation of her arrival. Tavia padded over to them, wishing she could ditch the uncomfortable slippers for a more rugged boot. They were, ponderously, all alone. Just the three of them. She searched their faces, suddenly wishing for the ice sculptures and crowds.

"Thank you," Ser Bayard said, looking pained, "For coming to us." He looked up at Etienne. A queasy feeling spread throughout Tavia's body, settling in her abdomen. "You're certain, Etienne, that she's the one?"

"It's very faint, but whenever she is near…" Etienne paused, lifting his chin like a hound scenting the air. The candle light glinted off of his bald head. "Yes… I can sense it. The taint. She's the one."

"I beg your pardon," Tavia began slowly, taking a step back, "What is this about?"

"Show her ladyship in!" Etienne bellowed, ignoring Tavia. A flap at the opposite end of the tent fluttered and then rose. A handful of guards entered briskly, their swords unsheathed. A slight figure followed them, a woman, Tavia surmised from her size, but cloaked in deepest black. Cold wind filled the tent, chilling Tavia to the core of her bones. The woman wore a shimmering veil over her face, obscuring her features. She took a few steps inside the tent. A bizarre aura hung around her, despair maybe, or evil, a miasma that couldn't have been natural. Tavia glanced backward, evaluating her chances of making a successful escape. She was slow, and weary, and vastly outnumbered.

"Let me see her face."

Ser Bayard's hands were on her, holding her fast. She struggled, but Etienne was quick to grab her chin and steady it. The woman became still, watchful. Tavia could hear her own ragged breathing muddling up her ears.

"Yes, it's her. Arrest her."

Tavia knew that voice. She _knew_ it. She grasped for the name, for the memory, but came up empty. Her mind shuddered, the shock and outrage of being set-upon dimming her wits. With that, the woman turned and disappeared. The horrifying chill vanished, as if the woman had sucked it out of the tent with her departure. Her guards, however, remained. They descended on Tavia, waving their swords in front of her face. She gasped, her arms wrenched painfully behind her back. Etienne wrestled her wrists into a tight, biting pair of steel manacles.

"What is this?" she hissed. "I demand an explanation."

"Tavia Tabris," Etienne grumbled, "by order of the Grey Wardens, I place you under arrest for the murder of Captain Rylock, of countless innocent templars, and for aiding the escape of a known apostate."

Grey Wardens? _Etienne_ was a Grey Warden? No, it wasn't possible, it wasn't even _plausible_… What would he be doing here? Unless the Orlesian Wardens had learned of her exile, wise to her location all along, and Nathaniel was simply a convenient means to this end. She had left her post, forsaken the order and cleansed herself of the taint. And now she could no longer sense Darkspawn or those who hunted them. She groaned.

"This is a mistake," Tavia shouted, trying to pull her arms free. "I'm not who you say…"

"You have been identified, Tabris." Etienne muttered, his voice dripping with contempt. "There is no mistake."

"No!"

She kicked, hard, and landed a solid blow to Etienne's groin. He growled, twisting her around and shoving her toward the back exit of the tent. Tavia glanced over her shoulder, frantic, but there was no sign of Leliana. They had been separated and drawn into a trap. She hoped Leliana would be spared. She was a fighter, too, and strong. Leliana would not go down easily.

Tavia, on the other hand, could struggle but a little. Angering them too much could endanger her life, yes, but also the life of her child…

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears of rage and frustration, she spun to look at Ser Bayard, who followed just a few steps behind. Etienne pushed her along, heedless of her comfort.

"Why would you do this?" she asked in a whisper. "What did I ever do to you?"

"Nothing, Grey Warden." Bayard heaved a regretful sigh. His fingers worried along the creases of his forehead. "You did nothing. This is nothing personal between you and me, and I am so very sorry for it. I regret… I regret how this must go... For both of us." He sighed, the light flagging in his green eyes as his shoulders crumbled. She wanted to pull his head off.

"You're disgusting," she spat.

They were nearing the tent flap and Tavia realized that, of course, canvas wasn't terribly sound-proof. She opened her mouth to scream, but found she had been anticipated. Ser Etienne stuffed a filthy rag into her mouth, holding his hand there to make sure she couldn't spit it free. She tried in vain to bite him, but he was wary of that, too. He manhandled her outside, protected on all sides by that strange woman's armored guard. It was ridiculous, really, half a dozen steel-encased men and a Grey Warden to escort one very small, very pregnant woman.

She would've laughed hysterically if she didn't want so badly to cry.

* * *

"Try that again and it'll be no fish for a week! I swear it! _Kitty_. I swear it…"

Anders lunged for Ser Pounce-a-lot, who was making another desperate escape attempt. The damn cat was mutinying, trying to scramble back down the hill toward the party tents. Anders settled the cat in his lap and reached for the bottle of wine nestled in the grass beside his blanket. He had climbed the hill overlooking the fair, not far at all from the tents. In the morning he would return, seek out Tavia, and try to put things back in order. Blessed darkness would keep him hidden from his companions for now. He needed to be alone. And he needed to be fall-down, dead stupid drunk.

But apparently Pounce-a-lot didn't approve of this plan. Maybe because this plan involved camping; for the cat, this would conjure memories of ranging up and down the countryside in Anders's dingy pack, constantly in danger of Darkspawn attack or being jostled to death. Clearly, the cat hoped their camping days were far, far behind them. Pounce was determined to trot back down the hill, clamoring out of Anders's pack like a rabbit scampering out of a warren, or darting away, quick as a shadow, when the mage turned his head for an instant.

"Look, kitty, I _know_ the food's better down there," Anders said pleadingly, "But I need your company. Tomorrow you can have all the fishes you want. Just please, cooperate for ten seconds together."

Pounce meowed plaintively, trudging up and down Anders's ankles to let him know just how enthusiastic he was about the rugged life. Anders sighed and took a long swig of wine and then lay back on the blanket. A piece of grass tickled his ear and in retaliation he yanked it out of the earth savagely. Pounce ambled his way up Anders's legs until he got to his knees, then the cat turned in circles, kneading with his paws, claws out, until Anders yelped and pushed him into the grass.

"You're really not making this any easier, you know that?"

Pounce hopped away, suddenly enchanted with the idea of catching a cricket. Anders let him go. "You'll be back," he muttered, "You'll see."

His head swimming from drink and self-loathing, Anders hoisted himself into a sitting position. Giddy, drunken warmth battled anxiety for superiority in his belly. He watched the tents below, wondering if Tavia was any of the little ant people he saw flitting between festivities. He hoped sincerely that she was having a miserable time. And thanks to him, she probably was. There was a nasty little doubt demon worming its way into Anders's heart. He wondered – too late of course – if he had perhaps jumped to conclusions. Tavia had acquaintances all over the place, this Z person could be an old admirer or even just, as she claimed, a good friend. And maybe she'd neglected to mention anything about the Deep Roads because Anders never managed to take an interest in her business. Letters meant distractions, and they meant more time with Tavia at her desk and not in his lap or his bed. She was sparing him the tedium of what he himself had proclaimed tedious.

"Bugger it."

Anders drank more, harder, wishing alcohol were enough to obliterate the sore wound festering in his heart. Fighting with her was like stabbing himself repeatedly in the eyeball with a blunt stick. It made him furious and it hurt and it never led anywhere productive. But what could he do? Stay in the tent? Wait for her to come back and turn those soulful blue eyes on him? She was pregnant, for Maker's sake, carte blanche if ever there was one. He had acted like a jealous idiot, but maybe, just maybe, he was a righteously jealous idiot. So he would give her the cruel gift of time to think about that.

And in the future, perhaps, she wouldn't choose to keep things from him or flirt with big, fancy knights that spouted soppy, romantic nonsense as if it were their sworn duty to singlehandedly seduce and bed every woman in ten mile radius.

Ser Pounce-a-lot returned, no worse for wear and, unsurprisingly, without the prize of a dead cricket. He gave Anders a sour, scrunched look.

"Thank you, cat, I know. Punishing her is probably not going to work. I _had_ thought of that."

The tabby meowed, shaking its fur out, and turned a circle. Without squinting, Anders could make out two distinct cats. He glanced at the bottle. This was strong stuff. Pounce made a low sound, not a purr and not exactly a growl.

"Sorry, I'm not ignoring you. I'm just drunk, kitty. Incredibly drunk."

Pounce placed one paw on Anders's thigh and looked him in the face. His little almond-shaped amber and green eyes fractured in the darkness.

"That's nice of you, really. I appreciate the sympathy."

Pounce swished his tail and watched another cricket bounce by.

"How does this happen, exactly? I feel so right so… so… _fuck_… so… justified! And then an hour later I'm flat on my arse, drunker'n Oghren at an interment, regretting every word I've farted out of my dumb mouth and talking to a bloody _cat_. My life's a mess, kitty. And I wish I had someone other than myself to blame."

Pounce hopped up onto his thighs and curled into a ball. Anders was grateful for the warmth.

"I was drunk last night, too, wasn't I? _Gagh_."

Anders flopped back down onto the blanket and groaned. Wasn't this exactly what Leliana had been worried about? Fuss, fuss, fuss, always fussing over him. Maybe he really _wasn't_ ready to be a father. Maybe this night and the last proved it.

"And there I was last night," Anders muttered, wondering if the stars always looked like one big silvery blur or if that was the liquor talking, "Telling Nathaniel that we were going to start picking out names. Personally, I like Tempest. What do you think, kitty? Tempest. Temmm-peesst. Manly, isn't it? Perfect… you know… for a mage. If he's a mage, I guess, and there's no guarantee he will be. But I have this _feeling_ you know, this… Sod it. I'm not making any sense." Anders watched the stars bleed in and out of each other for a moment. "Tavi likes…" He coughed and hiccupped and it turned into a sob. His voice broke over her name. "Tavi likes Faber. I like it, too. It's a strong name… Strong… Like 'is mum."

Down the hill, with wheels clattering and frame creaking, a wagon roared by. Anders grunted and rolled onto his side. Someone was certainly in a hurry. Which was strange, he thought, considering tomorrow was only the second day of the fair. Ah well, maybe they were fleeing early, getting out while the getting was good. That's what he wanted to do - disappear, dissolve his body until there was no feeling left, close his eyes and just ignore the world passing him by.

* * *

"You can stop this, you know."

She was having trouble keeping her eyes open, but if it meant the difference between death or torture or survival, she was going to damn well try. The motion of the wagon rattling across the fields was nearly as hypnotizing as a good rocking chair, but Tavia fought her exhaustion until a headache blazed behind both eyes.

Ser Bayard stared back at her with his disarmingly green eyes. They had stopped to give the horses a rest. Etienne left one guard and Ser Bayard in the back of the covered wagon with Tavia. The rest of them got out to eat and stretch their legs. They rode furiously through the night, pushing the horses to their limits, and now dawn was creeping up on them. She could see through the tiny grommets and holes in the wagon cover that the sky had begun turning peachy yellow. Ser Bayard held the cloth gag and stretched it between his thick fingers. He hadn't slept either, spending the ride with this hands clamped over his thighs, his eyes trained unflinchingly at Tavia's feet.

"Keep quiet," Bayard mumbled, "Or I'll have to put this back in your mouth."

"You're either helping me or you're not. There's no middle ground here, Bayard."

His green eyes flared. "You will not address me so informally, madam. You are below me in rank, blood and fortune." Bayard's hand jerked, as if he meant to replace the rag and silence her for good. His fingers trembled and he glanced to his left, at the stoic guard silent and frozen inside his helmet. Tavia wondered if he was sleeping in there.

"Forgive me, I… Are you… well?" Bayard asked, lowering his voice. "I could ask Etienne for the ewer."

"I don't want your charity," Tavia said bluntly, "I want your reasoning. Why are you helping these people?"

"It's complicated… There are factors here that go back decades, centuries… Alliances made and broken, families united and torn asunder…" He sighed and dragged a hand through his dark curls. Outside, Etienne shouted to the driver. "They're returning. Here." Bayard raised the rag. Tavia clamped her mouth shut. "Please. I'm begging you, just… Open your mouth. I don't want to force you, but I will if you make this difficult."

Slowly, Tavia parted her lips. She winced. The rag smelled of unmentionable horrors. Bayard's fingers weren't much better. No amount of rose water, however liberally applied, could cover up the stench of betrayal.

The wagon dipped under the weight of five more armored sentries and Etienne piling into the back. Etienne made certain to sit right next to her, close enough that she could feel the texture of his leathers through the fabric of her gown. Tavia closed her eyes and looked away to keep from vomiting around the gag. The Grey Warden gave two sharp raps with his boot heel and the horses started up, jerking the wagon forward. The swaying started up again, and rather than glaring at Bayard for another eight hours, Tavia decided to sleep. She needed to stay sharp, alert, and Etienne had stacked the odds so steeply that there was no way she was getting out of that wagon. But that didn't mean he wouldn't slip up later and allow her an opening…

Tavia dropped her head back against the hard, unforgiving wooden bench and tried to steady her mind. At night, either at camp or in Vigils Keep, Tavia would sing herself to sleep, recalling lullabies from the Alienage her mother had sung to her before her untimely passing.

_The lilies in the shadowy nook_

_The flashing stream the winding brooks_

_All these the Maker's hands have made_

_For dearest love of thee_

She felt herself begin to drift, imagining not that she was being carted away to imprisonment or worse, but that she was back in her childhood home, as safe as one could be in an Alienage. Their home smelled of linen and the spicy mixture of tobacco her father smoked. Her mother tucked her in each night, drawing her cool fingertips over Tavia's forehead as if to physically draw the worries from her mind. It was difficult to breathe around the gag, but through her exhaustion she heard voices, muddled and strange, as if her ears were filled with water.

"She's sleeping, Etienne. Take out the gag, for the love of the Maker."

"You trust too deeply and for what? She is condemned, ser. Why raise her hopes falsely by showing kindness?"

"You're a brute."

The rag loosened and fell away and she breathed a little easier. Stale air flooded her lungs, drugging her, but it was better than nothing. She wanted to block out the voices altogether. She needed to pull herself away from the shifting, creaking armor and coughing soldiers. They smelled, sour armpits and day's old ale stains… No, they could be ignored. If she trusted, if she calmed her aching heart…

_Darkness and shadows fall_

_Peace to His elflings all_

_Andraste is guarding and watches o'er thee_

_As you sleep_

_May Andraste watch over and guard o'er thee_


	6. Six

**Six**

**Note**: Some rather mature content in this one, ladies and gents. Song selection for this chapter would have to be Greg Laswell's amazing cover of "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" – enjoy and please R&R.

*

The light burned. _Maker_, did it burn. Anders peeled open his sore eyes, his eyelashes stuttering on his cheek, and wondered if somebody had set the heavens on fire just to torment him. He half-hoped he had died from too much wine and winged beasties had carried him off to frolic in the clouds. But no, someone was staring down at him with a decidedly disappointed expression.

"'lo Nathaniel."

"If you were in any deeper shit it'd be coming out your ears."

Anders's reason and manner for waking in the open air returned with merciless force, jolting him into a sitting position. Nathaniel was only too happy to help him turn that into a tentative stand. Anders grunted and weaved as his friend strong-armed him away from the mess of empty bottles and crumpled blanket on the hillside.

"Anders, I… I should beat you senseless."

"Can I get my things please?" Anders muttered, squinting into the sunlight. He glanced over his shoulder at his pack and blanket. Ser Pounce-a-lot watched them, his tail swishing back and forth as he tried to gauge whether or not to follow. Nathaniel muttered something dark and awful under his breath and stalked back to the blanket. He scooped up the pack and toed Pounce with his boot. The tabby hissed, but fell into step beside him.

Anders pictured roots climbing out of his toes, he had to, it was the only way he was going to stay upright. Nathaniel marched back down the hill, grabbing Anders by the elbow and yanking him along. A crow started out of the tree behind them, cawing as it flew over head, circling and then racing off north. It would be prudent to apologize or at least inquire after Nathaniel's unusually black mood, but Anders's lips were still glued shut by grogginess and hangover mouth. His stomach made a disgusting burbling sound and Nathaniel swore again.

"Looking everywhere, rode all night, couldn't find you bloody anywhere and now here you are. Idiot, bloody idiot." Nathaniel did, in fact, look like he had been on a horse for several hours. His hair was disheveled, the braids holding the strands out of his face cluttered with fly-aways and bits of leaves.

"Sorry, mate," Anders whispered, finding his voice. "I, um, I don't have an excuse."

"_Of course you don't_."

"I'm in pain, man, be gentle," Anders said, trying to free his arm from Nathaniel's iron grip.

It did not have the desired effect.

Nathaniel stopped, whipped him around and pushed his big nose right into Anders's face. Anders craned his neck back, keen to avoid the spit that was undoubtedly about to fly.

"Yes, let's all be nice to Anders because his pain is _just so great_. Maker forbid we actually expect him to act like a grown man because he's in _so much pain_. No, don't shout at Anders, he's too fragile because of _all his bloody pain_!" Nathaniel threw up his hands. Anders had never heard him raise his voice to such a frantic, shrill octave. "Anders shoots lightning bolts out of his fingertips and fireballs out of his bum hole but don't trouble him, he's in _so much pain_!"

"I get it, you're angry."

"That's a bit of an understatement, Anders."

Nathaniel wrapped his steely fingers around Anders bicep and continued manhandling him down the hill. As they neared the tents, Anders felt his hangover turn into a deep, skewering nervousness. He'd have to face Tavia any second and the disadvantage went to him, considering he looked like he'd just gotten flat-out phalanxed and spent the night tossing and turning on a miniscule blanket with only a tabby and a prayer to keep him warm. Oh wait… He _had_ done that…

Mere feet from the outer ring of tents, Leliana appeared, legging it like all the demons of the Fade were at her back. She too looked frazzled, either she'd spent the night searching for Anders or she was out getting cabbaged with her bard friends. Her braid was tumbling out of its binding, unraveling up her back like a rope fraying to pieces. Her expression was wild, so wild in fact, that Anders was instantly reminded of her eleventh-hour appearance at the templar cellar in Denerim. That was the last time he remembered seeing her so… so… _deranged_.

"Leli," Nathaniel grunted, "I found this arsehole sleeping one off under that tree up there… What is it? What's the matter?"

Leliana was shaking, visibly, her hands trembling so hard she couldn't even make them into fists. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she managed to make a peep. Deep, ugly bags ringed her eyes.

"Tavia… She's gone. _Gone_. I can't find her anywhere, she's just vanished. And Bayard is gone too… nobody will tell me where he's gone! It's… there's no trace of her, _nothing_."

Anders reeled, suddenly grateful that Nathaniel was holding him. His stomach clenched, as if someone had punched him directly in the gut. Leliana began to sob, wheezing and panting as she did so. Anders got the impression she had cried so much it was now physically painful to continue.

"That doesn't make any sense, Leliana," Nathaniel said sternly.

"Oh, this is all my fault," Leliana whispered, "_Merde_. They lured me away! I see it now… the bard, the party… it was all a ridiculous lie, a set up. And then the wine and the dancing, and… Maker, they must have taken her sometime in the night…"

"Taken her?" Anders repeated, his voice faltering over the words, "Taken her where?"

"I don't know!" Leliana tangled her hands in her hair, pulling, tearing.

"There must be some explanation," Nathaniel replied. "Bayard is a gentleman. He wouldn't… He would never…"

"Oh _wouldn't_ he? Doesn't seem so now, does it? I knew that man was a creeper. I bloody felt it. Where would he take her, Howe? You know him." Anders had found his strength and, miraculously, his balls. He punched Nathaniel hard in the shoulder. "We're going to his tent, now, and we're not leaving until we get an explanation."

Nathaniel was unwavering. "And if he _didn't_ take her? If she went willingly?"

That was more than enough to push Anders from "incredibly concerned" to "insatiably homicidal." They were on the ground the next instant, Anders on top of Nathaniel, his hands clenched around Nathaniel's neck. Leliana was quick to pry them apart, but not before Nathaniel tried to land a head butt and Anders got in a weak knee to Nathaniel's groin.

"Stop it! _Andraste's blood_, you're like children!" Leliana hauled Nathaniel to his feet and held out her arms, protecting him from another one of Anders's outbursts. Anders, however, wasn't nearly satisfied. A web of lightning was already growing between his fingers.

"I'll kill you," Anders panted between breaths. "I swear it, Nathaniel. Don't test me."

"Nathaniel, take us to Bayard's tent. His people know you; perhaps they are willing to talk to you." Leliana raised her hand, signaling to Anders that she was on his side. He relented, dropping his hands, watching the lightning evaporate into tiny charged wisps of silver and white.

"Fine," Nathaniel said, between clamped jaws, "But we must entertain all possibilities."

"No, we _mustn't_."

"Anders," Leliana hissed, "Just… calm yourself, please. We should use our heads, not our fists. There is no reason to panic."

_Yet_.

Anders nodded, but did not agree. He was perfectly comfortable with the idea of using his fists. He would've liked nothing better than to uproot every Prideux tent until someone came forward with answers. And if that didn't work, he would set the servants on fire until their betters grew wagging tongues. He wasn't above extreme measures, not when his wife was potentially in danger, not when he himself had been kidnapped and the difference between his life and his death was a matter of minutes. There was no room for hesitation, not when his wife and child lay in the balance, and if they left Bayard's tent unsatisfied, then it would take a lot more than Leliana's good intentions and Nathaniel's whining to stop him from employing his own methods.

It didn't take a sophisticated diplomat to tease out that the Prideux household was not only lying, but that their silence had been bought with so much money that not even death threats could get them talking. It also didn't require a genius to see that whoever had been left behind to cover up the kidnapping had done a piss-poor job of it. Leliana was swift to bring them to the feasting tent where she had last seen Tavia. One cursory sweep of the outside perimeter told them almost everything they needed to know. They didn't even bother to go inside, not that the armored Prideux bravos would have let them. Behind the tent, Nathaniel and Leliana knelt to inspect the heavy wagon treads stamped into the dried mud. Their roguish instincts were taking over and Anders had to admit he was lucky to have their tracking skills. Where they saw a detailed story of the previous night's events, he saw only a mess of lines and wiggly bits.

"See here," Nathaniel muttered gravely, "the footprints? They must be heavily armed, their feet sunk in at least three inches. There were six of them, at least, perhaps more." He stood and followed the wagon tracks to a deep rut in the ground. "They left with some speed – the curve of the track there suggests a gallop. And here, you see? Another horse, a single rider following on their own."

"So either she was kidnapped or Bayard took her to race across the countryside on a romantic wagon ride with six armored guards and no word to anybody." Anders crossed his arms over his chest, glowering at Nathaniel as hard as he could. Pounce turned figure eights through his legs, back arched with nerves. Anders picked up the cat, watching as it squirmed and fidgeted in his arms.

"The cat's nervous," Leliana observed. "Perhaps he detects something we cannot."

"I'll tell you what he detects," Anders drawled, "Foul bloody play. She was kidnapped, Nathaniel. And your _friend_ is the culprit."

"Fine," Nathaniel spat, "Blame me if it makes you feel better, but it won't bring Tavia back any faster."

"What do we do now?" Leliana murmured. Anders didn't like the note of hopelessness in her voice. "They have a head start. Who knows how far they've gone…"

"We'll mount up and follow the tracks," Nathaniel replied sensibly. "We'll be light on horseback and fast, too. If we lose the tracks there are bound to be witnesses. You can't drive a wagon across the Vallée Royeaux without someone taking note."

Leliana and Nathaniel made short work of dismantling their own tents. Not literally, of course, but they took everything of worth and value. They were careful to pack up all of Tavia's clothing and letters, and Anders felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when, pouring over the oak desk, Leliana swore that somebody had rifled through Tavia's things. Leliana had helped Tavia dress and delivered her – _escorted_ her – to Bayard's tent. Allegedly, Leliana was the last person to see the tent, and her sharp eye was quick to point out that some items had been rearranged. So they had searched Tavia's things, had they? What were they looking for and, Anders shuddered, did they find it?

Anders was absolutely useless during these proceedings. He watched, cut off from his friends, fighting a wave of despair that threatened to crash over and devour him at any second. Neither Leliana nor Nathaniel commented on his silent, petrified demeanor; they scoured the tents, packed swiftly, and trundled Anders and his cat out to the horses. Nathaniel didn't call for the groom. He wanted to leave without giving the household cause to question or follow.

Anders sat numb in the saddle, trying to keep up with the furious pace set by Nathaniel, who was a skilled horseman. Anders just did his best to stay upright, clinging to the reins with white-knuckled fury. Later, he would probably pay for riding so hard and so fast, but the thought of that pain didn't trouble him. Strength, strength and faith – he needed them both in equal measure. He remembered without even straining the way he had crumpled in that templar's cell. Beaten and starved, he had come face to face with his own mortality and accepted it, but not before feeling his heart break utterly. And that was before he even knew Tavia cared for him. How much worse would it have been if he had experienced her love, tasted her lips and known her devotion?

Despite their argument and despite his hotheaded accusations about her striking up a romance with Bayard, he had no doubt in his mind that she had been kidnapped. Pounce's frantic response to being near the wagon treads confirmed it. Cats were spiritual creatures, friends to mage and all creatures of wizardry. Pounce-a-lot sensed what Anders feared to be true; Tavia had been taken, and not gently. He toed the hazy line between rage and sorrow, not knowing whether he was more outraged at Bayard's masquerade or his own failure to love and trust his wife. Their quarrel had created the perfect storm of circumstances – Anders away, Nathaniel on the hunt, Leliana distracted and stressed and Tavia, alone, a target painted on her back. There were any number of reasons a villain might choose to kidnap her – she had killed many in her day, who knew what forgotten relative or lover still held a grudge?

What worried Anders the most was the ease of it all. This was no sloppy, spur of the moment whim. Someone had carefully planned and executed this abduction. And he had helped them, in a way, leaving the door wide open.

Nathaniel called for a rest at a tiny village some miles north of Val Royeaux. They had left the forgiving valley behind and entered hilly country. The way forward would be much harder on the horses and their riders. It was no use running their mounts into the ground. They had to stop and recover, especially if they expected to catch up to the wagon and be in fit fighting shape. Nathaniel chose a small, cozy inn at the north edge of town. At first light, he told them, dismounting, they would continue the pursuit.

Anders accepted this with minimal grumbling. Leliana and Nathaniel were not mages. Anders was prepared to ride until his horse gave out and then go on foot, slamming lyrium potions to stay alert and empowered, hexing himself with wakefulness until the wagon was found and Tavia safely returned. But he knew this was the reasonable course of action, though reason, at that moment, was hard to see. He felt jittery and achy all over, sick, and had little appetite when Nathaniel suggested he eat supper. What was he supposed to do? Enjoy a languid meal while his pregnant wife inched closer to her demise?

Leliana and Nathaniel took a seat in the open dining room in the downstairs of the inn. They sat in front of the fire, their heads slumping over their plates. Anders grabbed a hunk of warm bread and cheese for himself and then scuttled away. On the way up the stairs, he saw Nathaniel lift his weary, sagging wrist and tuck a piece of loose hair behind Leliana's ear. Anders felt his own hand tingle in response, as if it were already in mourning for the loss of Tavia's cheek.

He stumbled up to his room and pushed open the door, noticing with faint puzzlement that it was already open. Shrugging, he unshouldered his pack and let Pounce out for the night. The cat dropped to the floor and then immediately stopped - hackles raised - and let out a long, shrill hiss. The empty room seemed to vibrate with darkness, contracting, the black space itself breathing with something cold and sinister.

Anders looked up, too slowly, his senses dulled with exhaustion. The door flew shut behind him, rocked on its hinges by a force so strong it could only be magic. Then there was a low chuckle from the shadows, and a glimpse of eyes that shimmered and shone like molten silver.

* * *

Strangely enough, there were actual guidelines sanctioned by the Wardens to survive capture and kidnapping. Alistair, going for his New Warden Merit Badge or whatever, had informed her of these protocols during their brief posting at Ostagar. They were useful, or at least simple, and Tavia decided to employ them in the off chance they improved her odds of survival. One was to cooperate, in order to avoid beatings and therefore maintain fitness, and another was to listen closely. Discovering one's location was foremost. If a message could be sent, then it would only be helpful if it mentioned a precise spot.

Tavia had, by necessity, reached a kind of peace with her situation. She could either give herself over to hysterics and dwell on her misfortune, or try and think her way out. No plan was perfect, no scheme without flaw – if she watched carefully enough, a weakness in her opponents would reveal itself.

So when they finally reached their destination, a good three-day ride from the fair, she was quiet and observant. She did not struggle when they pulled her out of the wagon, nor did she scream when they dragged her across the cobbled square toward a tall, circular keep. Instead, Tavia glanced surreptitiously in every direction, keeping track of how many towers she saw and the kind of terrain outside the walls. They had brought her, or so it appeared, to a fortified keep at the very heart of a town at the foot of pink-tinged mountains. Judging by how long they rode over cobbles and the sounds of haggling and gossip, the town was of medium size, with at least two walls – she had listened to the clinking and clanking of two separate portcullises.

These facts, while somewhat informative, did not ease her anxieties. This was no shabby ruin with lackluster protection; this was a fortress within a fortress. Etienne and Bayard escorted her to an archway in the rightmost corner of the keep. It was made of pale silver stones, ancient, by Tavia's estimation, and showing signs of degradation. The courtyard just outside the keep was choked with weeds and a pile of manure somewhere over her shoulder was giving off a ripe, gut-turning odor. Whoever ran this place most likely needed money to fix up the stonework and stamp out the squalor. Perhaps she would be ransomed to pay for these things.

Then she saw a peek of a banner, a long strip of fabric hanging out of one of the upper windows of the keep. It was blue with just a touch of silvery gray. She blanched. So this was one of the Warden keeps in Orlais… That meant their soldiers would be well-taught and fearsome, not at all the scrupulous, dishonorable mercenaries she had anticipated. Etienne was not alone in his crusade.

"Will you stay quiet," Bayard asked in her ear, "if I remove the gag and manacles?"

Tavia nodded. With Etienne muttering about duty and foolishness, Bayard gently pulled the damp rag out of her mouth. Tavia sighed her gratitude. Her tongue had become dust in her mouth, her jaw sore from the gag's unfair size. He loosened the steel bracelets and then slid them over her screaming wrists. Immediately, she rubbed them, trying to coax blood back to her numb fingers. While Etienne marched forward with a stern, business-like speed, Bayard let her hobble along at her own pace. He placed one hand on the small of her back and Tavia squirmed forward away from it.

"I said you could remove the gag," Tavia whispered, "I didn't say you could touch me."

"Peace, elf. I meant no offense."

Tavia followed Etienne, surrounded by the armored guard, to a broad, winding staircase. It lay just inside the arch of the keep, and Tavia was certain it traveled the entire height of the tower. She dreaded climbing those stairs, sensible of her weakness and the encumbrance of her ever-expanding stomach. Bayard seemed to intuit this and was careful to help her up each individual step, his palm hovering behind her in the event she lost her balance and tumbled backward.

Etienne pointedly ignored this kindness, stomping up the stairs two at a time, leading them up and up, until at last, after Tavia was completely winded and ready to collapse, they stopped on the ninth floor. It was a nauseatingly tall tower. The guards took over for Bayard, shuffling her down a cold, whistling hall and passed several pairs of locked doors. They were cells, no doubt, given their weight and the tiny, barred windows at the top.

They deposited her in the very last cell on the left. Tavia went immediately to the window. It was small and open to the elements except for four iron bars. She could see the courtyard below and a group of Wardens drilling with a marshal. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see Bayard wrenching open the door with his boot and shoving Etienne aside.

"I will bring you food," Bayard murmured. _Don't look so proud of yourself, ass_. "What can my lady keep down?"

"Oh, so it's 'my lady' now, is it?" She rolled her eyes. "Bread, a mild cheese and water."

"You will have it."

Bayard left her, the door shivering as it slammed shut. Alone, freezing, she paced the cell. She wished for a mage's powers; they were never completely helpless, formidable even without sword and armor. Turning back to the window, she took stock of her predicament again, reminding herself that it was useless to wish for silly things she could not have.

They wouldn't have bothered to actually arrest her if they didn't care about keeping up appearances. That was a clue. Whoever was behind this, it was somebody who cared about or at least acknowledged the rules of the courts. Grey Wardens abided by their own rules, so Tavia felt it unlikely that Etienne was the mastermind behind this plot. It had to be that woman she had encountered in the tent. Clearly, whoever she was, she didn't trust the actual law to intervene. She either knew Tavia personally or knew her reputation. Then she must also know that Tavia held sway with Fereldans and had therefore chosen to operate outside official channels. But how were the Wardens involved? What Grey Warden would actually come after her, knowing that she had helped slay the Archdemon and personally dispatched the Brood Mother?

There was some link she was not seeing and it tormented her.

Bayard returned, as promised, and as he opened the door Tavia got a good look at the two armored guards outside her door. She would be watched day and night. Not that it mattered - she couldn't very well chew her way through a solid foot of reinforced oak. Tavia sat cross-legged on the floor, pulling her skirts primly over her knees and feet. Bayard knelt and set the tray of meager food in front of her legs. He hesitated, bobbing on the balls of his feet, and watched her with his curiously bright green eyes.

"Don't worry," Tavia said mildly, "I won't try to choke myself."

Bayard made a soft, grunting sound in his throat. "How long… I wanted to ask… How long before…"

"Before what? Before I kill you out of impatience?"

"How long before the baby comes," he whispered.

Tavia squeezed the piece of bread in her hand to mush. "_Bastard_. Get out of my sight."

"I only ask out of concern for you, and for the wellbeing of the child," Bayard replied, standing and backing away.

"It isn't enough that you abduct me and imprison me here, but you must also insult me, too?"

"I'll leave you," he muttered, turning.

"You had better."

Tavia stonily ignored the fact that she was on her way to alienating her one ally in this ordeal. Bayard took no satisfaction in hurting her, so why would he go along with the kidnapping in the first place? She had assumed his affection for her was false, that he had treated her with such deference at the fair to lull her into complacency… But he seemed genuinely conflicted, and Tavia wondered if he had been threatened or blackmailed into aiding that strange woman.

Tavia finished her meal, still hungry but feeling nauseous all the same. She pushed the tray away and sat back against the wall, stretching out her legs. There was no bed, just a single chamber pot and that tiny window. Afternoon was fading to dusk, painting the inside of her cell with rich purple light. She couldn't unwind the knot of fear spinning in her gut – she still had no idea what they intended to do with her and no idea if her friends were alright. And worst of all, Anders might not even _know_…

She could kill herself for being so stupid, for letting him provoke her into a fight. A smart woman would've kept her head and talked him down with sense and honesty. Instead, she had fanned the flames of his jealousy, refusing him answers, encouraging his temper. Now he was gone, pushed away when she needed him most.

As the purple dusk marched resolutely toward night, Tavia slipped into an uneasy sleep. She found it terribly unfair that she dreamed, almost as soon as her eyes closed, of Anders. It was agony to have him suspended there in her mind, close and loving, when in reality he was hundreds of miles away, furious with her.

A dream of autumn visited her. It was an unseasonably warm day, a day she well remembered. Tavia woke much later than she wanted to, kept abed by a stomach ache that had plagued her for weeks. She didn't feel sick, exactly, just sluggish and absentminded. Then the aches turned to vomiting and, though Tavia considered herself a woman of no small intellect, it took an embarrassingly long time for her to understand the meaning of these frequent, early-morning trips to the washroom. When at last, on that warm autumn day, the truth dawned, she stood staring at herself in the mirror for twenty unbroken minutes. She prodded her flat, smooth stomach. _Weird_, she thought, _totally weird_.

Then she stumbled out of the bedroom, the pitter-patter of her bare feet coinciding with the hammering noises coming from outside. She walked by Pounce, loitering in a sunny window, his tail swishing back and forth like the pendulum on a lazy, furry clock. The door to the cottage was wide open, propped with a metal vase shaped like a nug, an "elegant" wedding gift from Oghren which had quickly been relegated to doorstop. The smell outside was mesmerizing and heady – the orchard trees fragrant with the last apples clinging to their branches, wood smoke drifting across the valley from distant farms, the dry, dusty smell of fallen leaves permeating the air.

Tavia found Anders hard at work, for once, on a frame for the vegetable garden. His mage's robe was stripped to the waist, the loose sleeves tucked up around his belt to keep from dragging on the ground. He knelt over his project, eyebrows drawn in concentration, three nails sticking out of the side of his lips. She watched him hammer with hilariously inaccurate strokes, bending every single nail he attempted to hit. Cursing, he yanked the nails out with the back of the hammer and then spat the three spares into his open palm. Anders resorted to magic, as he always did when the more mundane challenges of the world proved too daunting to master. He stared at the nails, which floated up out of his palm and then struck the wood at perfect, even intervals. With a little grunt and a flare of his nostrils, the nails embedded themselves completely in the wood.

She didn't want to disturb him, not when he was trying so very hard to be productive, and not when he looked so strong and sleek in the sunshine. A fine sheen of sweat spread across his bare chest and back, glinting off of his collarbones and the ridges of his shoulders. His ponytail had come loose, scattering a few strands of gold across his cheek.

Tavia padded across the grass, still dressed in a loose linen sleeping tunic and a slouchy pair of leggings. She wasn't exactly the picture of femininity in that moment, but she had been too shocked and elated to rethink her clothing. Anders noticed her and sat back on his haunches, grinning and pushing the hair out of his slick face.

"Morning, lazy."

"It is still morning, isn't it?" Tavia asked, stopping a foot or so away from him.

Anders squinted up at her. "Yes, just." He reached a hand out toward her. "What is it? You look… different. What's different?"

"Everything."

"Say again?"

Tavia smiled and took his hand, placing it on her hip. She ran her hands through his hair and pulled out the band holding the sloppy ponytail in place. Anders nuzzled into her thigh, and for a moment Tavia watched the orange and yellow leaves drifting down from the trees sheltering the dirt patch they'd staked out for the garden. She looked at the little rows where the seeds were planted, hidden, tiny wooden markers in the soil reading "tomato" or "squash." Anders had carved a little tomato with legs and arms and a grumpy face on the one marker.

She sank down next to him, sitting in the prickly grass. His eyebrows drew together in puzzlement, his light brown eyes searching hers.

"There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to fucking let it out," Tavia said, laughing at her own ridiculous nerves. "You're um, you're going to be a father."

Anders blinked at her, his mouth slowly but surely falling open. He sort of pecked his head at her in disbelief and then stumbled over a word that didn't quite make it out right. Then a slow, wide grin settled over his face inside the parenthesis of his dimples.

"Are we happy?" Tavia squeaked, ducking her head.

"We are happy," Anders said firmly. He hugged her and pulled her onto his lap, kissing her deeply. She held his head between her hands, expelling a breath that had been building in her chest all morning. Then he tumbled her back onto the grass, crawling downward and nosing his way up under the hem of her tunic. Tavia laughed, his beard tickling the sensitive skin of her stomach.

"I'm not happy with this shirt, however," Anders grunted, "Or these pants."

Tavia arched her back, helping him tug the tunic over her head. He was quick to shuck his robe and shimmy the soft, cottony fabric down her legs. Anders had become adept at undressing her. So adept, in fact, that he was better at undoing her clothes than his own. Tavia pulled him up to her lips by his hair, suddenly so hungry for him her chest actually ached. He peeled her legs open, nipping at her earlobe. Then he gripped Tavia's ankles and pushed her knees up to her shoulders. It wasn't until that moment that Tavia realized they were wide out in the open, and that anyone passing by the cottage would undoubtedly see them rutting in the yard.

Instead of making her squeamish, Tavia felt a deep, resonant excitement. It was like being drunk, filled with a primal urge to be taken right there in the grass. She didn't care who saw them. Tavia threw her head back, moaning in time with Anders's teasing bites on her breasts. He drew the nipple of her right breast into his mouth and sucked, hard, waiting for one rewarding yelp from Tavia before driving inside of her. There was no hesitation; he filled her to the hilt with one smooth, possessive stroke.

Anders made a long, throaty sound, as if he were dying and couldn't slip away without first giving a surprised wail.

This was what she lived for. This was what she had always wanted from sex, not the furtive, gentle lovemaking that Alistair repeated with dogged ignorance. She was sure it was indicative of some serious personality flaw that she by far preferred Anders's animalistic lust. They didn't make love, not really, they fucked. They were both warriors at heart. They needed to brand each other with bites and bruises and the satisfying ache of too much friction.

That was what she needed from him, and that was what she got. It was never spoken between them. Anders could catch her glance at the dinner table or in the sleepy moment just after waking, and in the next instant he was between her thighs, claiming her with his tongue or his fingers or his cock…

She felt the sweat building on his back and took it as her due. Anders lapped at her ear relentlessly, driving her into an intense, silent delirium. He pulled her legs up further, allowing himself better access. That was too much… Or was it? She could barely think, let alone divine whether or not Anders was going to break her in half. Whatever he was doing, it felt _right_, savagely good, fulfilling an ache she never noticed until it was _there_. She almost wondered what it would be like to bed an elf, since proportionately they were so much smaller than humans. Smiling, she decided it wouldn't be half as satisfying, and that it wouldn't leave her with that sweet, private burn that refused to abate until Anders healed her or took her again.

Tavia found his mouth, not caring that his hair was getting tangled in their kiss. She felt his hand snake around to her lower back and elevate her slightly. Whatever that little movement did, it made him hit something inside of her that was as effective as the tripwire on a trap.

Tavia grew ridged in his arms, fighting a blazing wave of climax that wouldn't be denied. He pulled her head back roughly, cradling her neck in his hand, and watched her shriek through the hills and valleys of her orgasm. Through blurred eyes, Tavia could see his feral smile. But Anders wasn't far behind, only seconds later pouring into her with a guttural cry. They collapsed in a sweaty heap on the grass, his loose hair skittering across her neck. He kissed her neck and then her lips, still moaning with either pain or pleasure or both.

"You are," he grunted, licking her cheek, "going to be the death of me, woman."

"Maybe," she replied, "but what a spectacular way to go."

Anders laughed, his hand, either purposely or instinctually, rested over her stomach. Tavia placed both of her palms over his, holding him there. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, watching as he closed his eyes and his expression tightened. She knew that look. He was using magic, conjuring…

"Boy or girl?" she murmured. Her stomach felt warm, tingling with his effort.

After a moment, his eyes opened. "Boy."

"Mage?"

"Not sure yet," Anders said, sighing, "Ask again later."

Tavia woke herself with the force of her sobs. She cradled her head in her hands, willing the tears to slow. Would she ever be so happy again? Would she live to feel his kiss one last time?

She looked down at her stomach and smiled through the tears. No matter where she went, she had a part of him with her. "Please," she whispered to no one, "Please, I don't want to die." She touched her navel. "I want to meet you… we all want so very much to meet you, little one."


	7. Seven

**Seven**

"_Krag_?"

Anders collapsed back against the door, clutching the front of his robe. "Maker, give me a moment, I think I might've had a stroke."

The candles flared, throwing tall swaths of buttery light toward the ceiling. Krag rose from his chair against the window, and made a deep, formal bow. Anders watched him silently, waiting for his heart to catch up to his brain. He had seen the glowing eyes and heard the ominous chuckle and expected to be struck down with lightning in the next second. Even in the light, Krag did not look any less foreboding, but at least he was a familiar face.

Anders shuffled over to the small country bed and dropped down heavily, staring at the food in his hands. It no longer interested him. Krag returned to his seat by the window and produced a long, wooden pipe from the inside pocket of his burgundy robe. He lit the tobacco with the tip of his calloused finger. Outside, a light rain began, tickling the green window shutters.

"I hear you lost your woman," Krag grunted.

"Not exactly," Anders replied, "I didn't _lose_ her. It's not like she's a handbag - I didn't misplace her. She was kidnapped. Taken."

"A misunderstanding of dialect," Krag said impatiently. "I understand that she was taken."

"Hang on, how could the news have traveled so fast?" Anders turned to look at his neighbor with renewed fascination. Somehow, this man had found out about Tavia's abduction, followed them to the village and then beaten Anders to his own room. He thought of the door slamming shut of its own accord and the candles lighting without the kiss of fire… It didn't surprise him that Krag was a mage. Krag's propensity for robes and vague, infuriating talk was right in line with every mage Anders had ever known, himself excluded, of course.

"When it has wings, my friend," Krag replied, pulling on his pipe.

"Ah, right." Anders sighed. He _had_ seen an inordinate number of crows lately, or perhaps just _one_ very persistent crow. "And he talks, does he?"

"Not as you and I speak, but yes, Kazimir communicates with me." The combination of his thick accent and the pipe between his lips made his speech almost incomprehensible.

"So your crow told you about Tavia," Anders began, "but that doesn't explain how you got here. We're at least a week's ride from home."

"You are a wielder of magic, yes? And yet you ask the questions of a child."

"Not a magic horse then?" Anders muttered, frowning. "Even I can't travel through the air."

"Indeed," Krag replied. "Then we were taught by different masters."

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose, shocked that a headache hadn't started. "Look, I'm exhausted. Could we do this later? I really need to get some sleep."

Krag nodded and took up his walking stick, which Anders now realized was probably his mage's staff. He hobbled to the door, eyeing Pounce, who seemed to shrink into a tinier and tinier ball as the strange man passed. Puffing on his pipe thoughtfully, Krag stopped at the door and glanced over his shoulder at Anders. In the candlelight, Krag's scar looked as pink and glossy as a wet flower petal.

"If Kazimir returns with news of your woman, shall I wake you or wait until dawn?"

Anders sat up a little straighter. _News_ of her? Maker's breath. Could it be possible?

"Do you really think he can find her?" Anders murmured, watching the fragrant smoke of Krag's pipe swirl up toward the ceiling in silvery loops.

Krag only nodded.

"Then wake me, please," Anders said, "at once."

The hem of Krag's robe was about to disappear into the gloom of the hallway. Anders looked at his abandoned food, at his hands and then at the door. "Why are you doing this?"

The voice came back to him in a low, monotone rumble. "Because she showed me kindness. And because you need my help."

* * *

Etienne and Ser Bayard appeared in her cell early the next morning. Etienne, his bald head gleaming in the single shaft of light streaming in from the barred window, looked robust and eager for a fight. Bayard, on the other hand, looked as if he might come apart at the seams. His normally lustrous hair was a dull shade of coal, his green eyes half-lidded and jaundiced.

Tavia stood at the window, watching the activities of the courtyard. It was a welcome distraction from the horrid monotony of staring at the walls. That, and the sunshine felt glorious on her face. Etienne paced, waiting for her. She glanced over her shoulder, surprised to find that he had dressed up for the pleasure of interrogating her. His bright Warden tabard matched the blues and grays of his cloak and tunic. He had shaved, and wore a gleaming silver broadsword at his belt.

"Are you going to tell me what this is all about now?" Tavia asked. She was having trouble keeping her slim breakfast down and winced at the waver in her voice. She had grown accustom to large meals and being so deprived was making her weak.

Etienne cleared his voice judiciously, as if he were giving a speech to heads of state and not one, confused woman. "How did you come to be purified of the Darkspawn taint?" he asked.

She laughed, glancing back down at the courtyard. "Are you serious? You've arrested me because I found a way out?"

"It's not a way out," Etienne spat, "it's an affront to the entire Order. You, madam, are an abomination and, as far as I'm concerned, a dangerous example of what too much freedom and too little discipline produces. There is a reason, I think, why so few women join the Wardens…"

"The hideous uniform?" Tavia supplied drolly.

"It is in your nature to pervert," Etienne replied. This she had to see. Tavia turned at the waist, watching as Etienne spewed his vile opinions with red-faced righteousness and Bayard stood by, growing paler by the minute. Bayard looked embarrassed to be in the same room as Etienne. Tavia sympathized.

"I'm not exactly sure what I've perverted," Tavia said, shrugging. "I made the decision for myself. If I've corrupted anything, it's my own soul, not yours. I don't see how this involves you."

"It involves _all of us_," Etienne barked. She watched his hand flash over the pommel of his sword. So he wanted to kill her, did he? What a shocking turn of events. "You will apprise me of the details or you will die. Cooperate and we will be merciful – we will not execute you until your child is safely delivered."

"How thoughtful of you."

Ser Bayard stifled a laugh behind a sharp cough.

"Let me get this straight," Tavia continued calmly, "You want me to tell you how I got rid of the taint so that you can, what? Destroy it? Trap all future Wardens into living by the terms you agree with? Maker, I'd heard you were crazy zealots in Orlais, but I had no idea just how crazy."

"Zealots?" Etienne laughed darkly. "We are pledged to an ideal – that you cannot see the difference is your failing, not ours."

Tavia sighed. She ran her fingertips up and down the cool iron bars, watching as a crow circled lazily over the courtyard below. "You may as well take up your sword and kill me now, ser. I will not reveal anything to you."

"Perhaps," he muttered, pacing again, "perhaps. But your friends may reveal your secret, and they will be easier to break."

"Nathaniel, you mean?" Tavia asked, frowning. "Why didn't you take him? You've had him in play for months now… It seems like a waste of energy to come for me."

"_You_ are the source of their release. _You_ are the seed of evil that must be torn out before it can take hold. Others will seek you out, as we did, but not to kill you, as they should. No, they will come looking for the antidote to the taint and our numbers will dwindle until there is _no one_ left to protect against the Darkspawn." Etienne stopped, tapping his fingers on his sword hilt impatiently. His boots clapped against the stones as he approached her. Tavia inhaled, holding her breath against the smell of his breath. He leaned over her, planting one hand against the wall on either side of her head. "What did you do?" he whispered directly into her ear. "Did your whelp of a mage unearth some long-lost spell? What demon did you dally with to fulfill your will?"

Tavia stared resolutely out the window. If she looked at him she would be tempted to strike. Too tempted. "I will never tell you."

"_Damn you_," his hand went about her neck, squeezing. Tavia gagged in surprise. More boots thundered across the stones and then Etienne's hand was gone, ripped away. Bayard had tossed him against the far wall, a shout of outrage tearing from his throat.

"Too far," Bayard roared, "You go too far, Etienne."

"I wouldn't touch him like that again."

Tavia turned, still touching her neck where it burned. They had been joined, silently, by the strange woman from the tent. Again it stabbed at Tavia that she could not recognize the woman's voice. It felt so excruciatingly familiar…

"Has Bayard become a liability?" the woman asked. She had changed since their last encounter. She now wore dark, gleaming velvet hose tucked into tall riding boots. Her tight, corseted purple tunic showed her slim figure to advantage. The hood of her cloak obscured her face with a shimmering mesh veil. An icy vapor swirled into the room.

"No, my lady," Etienne wheezed, getting to his feet. Bayard had knocked the Warden's head hard against the wall, but Etienne was making a good show of shaking it off. Bayard backed himself into the corner, dropping his head in reverence to the woman.

"Good, we need him. The other lords would grow nervous if Bayard were to suddenly disappear." Her head turned in Bayard's direction. "I hope you heard that with wide open ears, ser."

"Open and understanding, my lady," Bayard muttered.

"Tavia Tabris," the woman said, turning slowly on her boot heel. "Always a pleasure to see you."

"You have me at a disadvantage," Tavia murmured, her throat smarting, "For you know my name but I do not know yours."

The woman stiffened all over, as if this were a great insult. One gloved hand reached up and peeled away the veil and hood. Tavia stared, not certain whether she ought to shriek with laughter or curl into a ball. A sharp, imperious face glared back at her, crowned with an intricate lattice of blonde braids. Her eyes, which Tavia found riveting in their monstrousness, were no longer blue but deepest black.

"_Anora_."

"Indeed, but not as you once knew me."

That was plain enough. If the black eyes didn't give it away, the slight reverberation behind her voice and the cold fog that seemed to follow her everywhere did. Anora plucked at her gloves, removing them fastidiously, one fingertip at a time. Garish, blue-black veins stood out against the sides of Anora's pale face. They pulsed with concentration.

"Look at you," Anora said. Her voice seethed with disdain. "Bloated with child. I'm not surprised… You always were a prodigious slut. _Wait_ until the King hears of this. He will go mad with jealousy. How charming!" Anora threw back her head and laughed. It was the most unnatural sound Tavia had ever heard, and she had been privy to some hair-raising noises in her time.

"Now, introductions have been made," Anora purred, "to business."

"Yes, my lady." Etienne snapped to attention, Bayard's blow to his head forgotten. Bayard himself cowered in the corner, watching dust collect on his boots.

"I take it she will not give you the answers you seek?" Anora asked, examining Tavia from every angle.

"She refuses, my lady."

"I told you she would."

"I know, my lady, but I thought I ought to try all the same." Etienne did not meet Anora's eye. Tavia wondered if this was out of respect or fear.

"You did, of course, inform her that failure to cooperate would result in swift punishment," Anora said. Tavia did not like that she could banter so pleasantly about meting out executions. But Anora seemed only too delighted to be discussing Tavia's death.

"I did, my lady, as you instructed. But she refuses," Etienne replied.

"Truly?" Anora made a soft, thoughtful sound in the back of her throat. Then she took her glove and waved it at Tavia's face. "Then, I don't know, burn her. Perhaps the embrace of flames will loosen her tongue."

"M-my lady, isn't that awfully dangerous? Shouldn't we execute her here… Now? A burning, by necessity, must take place out of doors. This could give her followers a chance to intervene." Etienne was only allowed to look proud of his foresight for an instant. Anora whirled on him, the chill in the room intensifying. Tavia wanted to strangle Etienne. _Yes, do please burn me and see if nobody turns up to burn this Keep to the ground._

"You will not question my orders, _Warden_. You will wait four days and then you will burn her. Of course her followers will try to intervene. Isn't that the point? If she will not speak," Anora glanced at Tavia, smirking, "Then certainly her friends will. Perhaps they do not take death so lightly."

Tavia grew cold all over, and not just from Anora's wintry presence. Four days would be more than enough for Nathaniel and Leliana to track their movements. They would try to rescue her and, in doing so, walk directly into a trap. She never in her life thought she would actually _dread_ the help of her friends.

"As you command," Etienne said, bowing. "And the child?"

Instinctively, Tavia placed both hands over her stomach. _Leave him out of this_.

"An interesting question," Anora mused, tapping her glove against her pointed chin. She quirked her lips to the side, looking at Tavia's belly as if it were an antique to be appraised and not an innocent. "There may be a way to salvage it. The brat could be useful…"

"But if we burn her, the child will…"

"Yes I know, _idiot_," Anora snapped, "If she dies, the baby dies. But there is a way… I'm sure of it. You organize the burning and leave the child to me. Make certain your men are in readiness. I won't have her slipping away because you failed to properly prepare. Send word to the neighboring villages – we're going to burn a… an apostate! Give her foolish friends every opportunity to attend. Do not stop them at the gates. Do not spring the trap until they are really and truly in your grasp."

* * *

_You organize the burning and leave the child to me._

The words repeated themselves over and over until Tavia vomited into her chamber pot. Something was horribly wrong with Anora… Tavia had always suspected she was a little _off_, but this went above and beyond those suspicions. Whatever change Anora had undergone in the years since Tavia had last seen her, they did not inspire confidence. She had the look of someone touched by an insatiable darkness, and Tavia wondered if Alistair's coronation had led the former queen to take drastic measures. Power was a dangerous drug, it corrupted almost universally, and Anora was no exception. Tavia never expected Anora to take her fall so hard; she had tried to put provisions in place, begging Alistair to mind Anora's pride and wellbeing. Tavia knew a formidable woman when she saw one; no one fell from queenship unscathed.

But Tavia could not decide if Anora was focusing her ill will on her or Alistair. She and her child felt like a tool, one part of a larger puzzle. Perhaps a plan to unseat Alistair had been in the works for months, even years, and only now was Tavia given her role to play in his downfall. She had always suspected Anora begrudged Alistair the throne, but never in her wildest dreams had she imagined Anora would go to such lengths to regain power.

The Wardens and Orlesian nobles figured into the plan somehow. She had mentioned Bayard's importance and Tavia understood politics well enough to guess that Anora had promised Etienne and Bayard something in exchange for their support. Perhaps she intended to force another war and demonstrate that Alistair, with his attention focused on the Deep Roads, had neglected his duties and endangered Ferelden. And the horrific burning of the former Warden-Commander might demonstrate that Alistair had lost all of his allies and no longer had the power to protect his friends. It would only be a matter of swooping in with a treaty backed by Orlais and a former connection to the throne to garner the votes to dethrone Alistair and rise as Queen.

Etienne wanted Tavia's secret, Anora wanted Tavia dead. One hand washed the other.

Tavia felt sick with the horror of it all. She was one minor thread on Anora's web of murder and deceit.

And now her husband and friends would be dragged down with her. _Oh Anders, don't come for me. Stay away. Please, stay away._

Etienne would try again to coax the secret out of her tomorrow, she had no doubt of that. She was almost tempted to give him what he wanted. At least her child would be spared… No, that was foolishness. His promises were as empty as his heart. What would stop him from simply tossing the babe from a window or, worse, handing it over to Anora to use as another barb against Alistair? For once, Tavia feared for Alistair. She might not agree with his methods and she might hate him for his pride, but she had loved him once. Nobody deserved spite like Anora was capable of… and Anora was right. Tavia's child might be the hardest blow of all to fall.

Tavia watched the moon outside the window. She had long ago grown adept at telling the hour from the movements in the sky. Crows continued diving over the courtyard, which she found strange, given the hour. No, it was just one crow, and it looked incredibly irritated. She hoped it would fly off soon, and quit with its loud, echoing calls over the cobbles. Eventually, she would need to sleep. She glanced again at the waxy moon. Midnight.

The door creaked and heaved and yellow light from the corridor poured into her dark cell. Anora stood in the doorway, dressed now in a simple white robe trimmed in ermine. She would have been angelically beautiful but for the savageness in her eyes and the bright veins framing her cheeks. She had a small, squirming bundle in her arms that looked suspiciously like a newborn. Tavia flattened herself against the wall, glimpsing a bead of light flashing off the dagger in Anora's other hand.

The door slammed shut, leaving them alone. Tavia licked her lips, her mind suddenly plunging into calculations… She might be able to wrestle the knife away from Anora – but then what? She would be locked in her cell with a dead body, a screaming baby and a knife. Not exactly the recipe for a clean escape.

Anora glided over to her, the darkness in her eyes belying her serene expression.

"You've brought no guards," Tavia whispered, "Do you think I will submit willingly to your torments?"

Anora smiled and gave a feminine little shrug. The baby in her arm gave a strangled cry and Anora soothed it with a few soft, chattering noises. The child didn't seem convinced, and continued to wail. "I always hated children," Anora cooed, grimacing down at the baby, "So loud, so messy and weak. Come, Tabris, sit with me."

"I won't." Tavia placed her palms over her stomach protectively.

"You will."

Tavia gasped, feeling the air around her constrict and squeeze. She was floating, lifted off her feet. Anora's eyes flashed ebony and then red, pulsating with eerie light. The room smelled suddenly of copper, tangy and metallic. Anora dragged her forward, forcing Tavia down onto the floor. A short, hissing sound rattled out of Anora's throat and then she was lunging, throwing herself over Tavia like a spider catching a meal. Tavia clutched at her throat; it was becoming more and more difficult to breathe. The air in the room was crushing her, suffocating her. The baby appeared in Anora's arms, pressed tightly to her bosom. Anora swayed over her, her eyelids fluttering as she chanted a phrase from a dead language. Tavia couldn't hear her for the blood rolling in her ears.

_ Caw – caw - caw!_

The crow outside had worked itself into a frenzy. It was at the window now, watching them; Tavia heard its beak knocking against the bars. _Caw_! _Caw_!

The baby was crying, adding to the racket in Tavia's ears. Anora's voice grew louder, drowning out the crow's protest and the baby's wails. The air thickened and shimmered. Anora rocked harder, back and forth, back and forth, her mouth moving so fast Tavia could only see a blur of pink and a flash of teeth. Then Anora was raising the knife, draping the squirming baby over Tavia's chest. Anora opened her palm, lowering it and shaking it like a tambourine over Tavia's stomach.

Then Tavia was screaming, silently, her voice dying somewhere in her throat. The knife flashed, plunging into the wriggling bundle on her chest. It stilled, and even as its wails died down, Tavia felt a pang in her abdomen, a pang that grew to a pain so great she could no longer keep her eyes open. She trembled, burning. The seething ache seemed to contract in her stomach and then spread, settling over her heart. She felt something warm and wet running down her neck and heard Anora's distant laughter and wondered if she would lose consciousness and wake up the next morning in hell.


	8. Eight

**Eight**

**Note: **Mature content in this one toward the end. Please R&R – the next update should be posted sometime tomorrow…

That her baby lived, Tavia was certain; that she herself was still alive, she was less sure.

All night, she flickered between sleep and wakefulness. When she entered the Fade, she maintained consciousness. Her visions were mangled, restless, filled with strange purple towers and eyes that burned like pinpricks of fire. The next morning, she woke flat on her back. Someone had changed her clothes, redressing her in a simple cotton shift. Her neck and hands were clean. There was not a drop of blood on herself or the floor and no sign at all of Anora or the baby. At first she wondered if it had all been an ugly nightmare – but the change in clothes and the odd dreams confirmed that Anora had indeed entered her cell and performed some kind of hideous ritual.

Even though her child seemed well enough and kicked boldly as he always did in the mornings, Tavia's mind descended to dark places. She felt ill, not just in body but in spirit. The weakness from lack of food had turned into something more, something sinister. When she closed her eyes she saw not blackness but emptiness, vast and hollow.

Etienne returned twice throughout the morning to encourage a confession. Tavia sat still against the wall, staring numbly at the wall, waiting for him to give up and leave her in peace. Undoubtedly, he assumed she was simply depressed and despairing. That was true, but she was also hard at work. Either she found a way out or her life and the lives of her dearest friends were ruined. The idea of Anders's replacing her in this place made her absolutely livid. She wouldn't allow it, not anymore than she would allow that terrifying freak Anora to steal her child. Every hour drew her closer to the flames and her husband closer to capture.

At midday the crow returned to her window. He had either left for the morning or allowed her to rest, ceasing his constant cawing.

Alone again, Tavia used all of her strength to climb to her feet. She padded over to the window, noticing that her knees and feet were even more swollen than usual. The crow pecked at the bars, watching her with that sharp avian keenness. As she drew near, she noticed the bird was missing one of its eyes, a scar drawn neatly down the side of its face. Her breath caught.

"You… You're not… Krag's, are you?"

"Caw! Ca-caw!"

The crow hopped up and down, as if annoyed with Tavia for her stupidity. _Yes it's me_, it seemed to say_, took you long enough_.

"What if… D'you think you could get a message out for me? Can you understand me?"

Either Tavia was hallucinating badly or the crow nodded its sleek black head.

Slowly but surely, an idea formed in her head. She poked her finger through the bars and stroked the crow's head. It nuzzled into her touch, unexpectedly soft and warm. "Stay here," she said quietly, "I've had a thought."

Tavia strode to the door and thumped on it with her open palm. A moment later, the door shivered open. She came face to face with a bored-looking sentry. He regarded her with cool indifference beneath the visor of his steel helmet.

"What is it?"

"Fetch Ser Etienne, please. I would like to speak to him."

The guard sighed. "This better be important, missy."

"It is," she said demurely, "I promise."

The door closed and the key turned. Tavia waited, pacing, wondering if she could really pull this off. Etienne wasn't an idiot, but then again, he was taking orders from Anora, so anything was possible. She had nothing to lose, that much was obvious. The time for dire actions had arrived. Tavia's palms began to sweat as she rocked back and forth on her feet. _Hurry it up, arsehole. I'm about to make all your dreams come true…_

Etienne strode into her cell five minutes later, slightly out of breath. He had probably taken the stairs two or three at a time. _Eager, are we? Splendid._

"Yes?" he asked, arching one eyebrow imperiously.

Tavia screwed up her face into the best look of contrition she could manage. This was no easy task, considering she was trying not to giggle. "I've decided to give you what you want, ser. Bring me quill and parchment and I will take down the instructions for you."

"No, out of the question." He crossed his arms over his Warden tabard. "You will speak the instructions to me now."

Tavia rolled her eyes. "It's incredibly complex - you would never remember all of the steps. What? D'you think I just sprinkled a bit of ash over myself and called it a day? There are countless ingredients and spells required. Either bring me the parchment and quill or suffer my silence, Warden."

"Very well, but I'll have Ser Charles watch you. May I ask, what brought about this change of heart?" Etienne asked, pausing as he turned to leave.

"I feel suddenly… ill," Tavia said, trembling. It wasn't totally a lie.

"I see. I'll be back shortly, before you can change your fickle mind."

Tavia stared at the ground. It took him longer than she liked to rustle up a quill and parchment. What, did they do all their correspondence by smoke signals? She bided her time by keeping an eye on the crow waiting on the window sill. He too seemed impatient for the game to begin. Etienne himself did not return, but one of his toadies did. An armored sentry entered, handing her quill, ink pot and one curling roll of parchment.

"I'm to watch you," he said in a gruff voice, heavy with a low country accent. "So don't try nuffin'."

Tavia nodded and went to sit against the wall. She bent over the parchment, making a great show of thinking and pondering and huffing. She turned her head from side to side, as if considering how exactly to phrase her instructions. The sentry watched, vaguely interested, and then began to whistle idly.

"I have to use the chamber pot," Tavia said softly, pulling herself back to her feet. The gritty walls were perfect for such a thing. She shuffled over to the empty chamber pot, ducking her head. "Turn around, please," Tavia said, standing primly in front of the pot. Ser Charles raised one dark eyebrow.

"No."

"Are you a Grey Warden or a dog? Turn around."

He grunted as if she had struck him across the face. She wished she had. Sighing, Ser Charles turned, his leather armor creaking as he shifted from foot to foot. Tavia made a great show of moving around her skirts, while in actuality doing nothing at all. Then, mustering her last vestige of strength, she very carefully and quietly squatted to pick up the heavy iron chamber pot. With a running start, she knocked Ser Charles over the head with it. He made a soft sound of surprise, which she barely registered over the noise of his skull caving in. Tavia stared down at him, breathing hard.

There was a lesson to be learned here. A lesson about imprisoning and torturing pregnant women. Accordingly, Tavia wanted far more time with good Ser Charles, the opportunity to slit his belly and show him his own living guts as a reminder that it was not honorable to mistreat a woman heavy with child. If they wanted to rip her baby from her then she would rip the intestines from Ser Charles with her bare hands. But such things were messy and time consuming and she had mere minutes to pull off her plan.

So instead she sat on his shoulders, grasped him by the head with both hands twisted, snapping his neck with one loud, clean crunch. Oghren had taught her that technique. If she ever got out of there alive, she'd have to write him a thank you note.

Tavia climbed off of Ser Charles, wiping her hands on her shift, and set to work. She was grateful to find that her crow friend still waited patiently outside the window, its beak twitching to the side as it watched her. Tavia used the tiniest amount of parchment possible, just a thin strip along the very bottom of the page. If she wrote small enough, she could convey her message and her captors would never know a message had been sent.

"Z", she wrote, "Urgent, captive, Warden Keep north of V. R. - burned within the week. Heavy guard, bring help. Under NO circumstances should my husband or Nat. Howe come. Trap. –T"

Tavia hoped it was enough to convey both her exigency and her circumstances. She rolled the message into a little scroll and tore off a thin strip of her shift to tie it to the crow's leg. Now came the tricky part. Could the crow understand her? How would it find Zevran? It might simply return to its master, Krag, and he certainly wouldn't know who "Z" was.

"Little savior, you must take this to the Deep Roads. Orzammar. There's an Antivan elf there, an assassin. His name is Zevran Arainai. Deliver this message to him and only to him. Do you understand?" Tavia felt ridiculous. Talking to a crow? Is this what the bottom of the barrel felt like? But what choice did she have? If the message reached Krag, he would undoubtedly go to Anders, and Tavia wouldn't risk her husband falling into this insidious trap. Perhaps Krag already knew of her predicament, considering his crow was keeping vigil over her. The crow gave two short caws and bobbed its head and then it was gone, launching into the sky and soaring over the courtyard.

Tavia searched Ser Charles. A sword, yes, but no key. The sword wouldn't help her. She wouldn't make it out the door, not lacking in armor and the strength to wield the blade. A key would've been helpful, but they would discover its absence soon enough and punish her for its theft. Not that she expected to evade punishment for killing Charles, but the fewer infractions the better. She left the sword about him, having nowhere to keep it, and returned to her quill and parchment. Humming softly to herself, she wrote out her meticulously detailed instructions for the Wardens.

Ser Etienne returned roughly five minutes after she dotted the last sentence and crossed her last T. Tavia sat cross-legged against the back wall, still humming as Etienne unlocked the door and stepped inside. The angle of the door hid the guard's body, and Etienne was so doggedly fixated on the piece of parchment, he failed to notice his sentry's unfortunate condition.

"You have done well," Etienne said, drifting forward as if drawn by a coaxing spell. He leaned over and picked up the paper, eying Tavia intermittently, as if he didn't trust standing within spitting distance of her. He took a step back and scanned the paper, his brow furrowing as he went.

"Old Mac Tir had a farm, ee-eye-ee-eye… What _is_ this?"

"Ancient spell of cleansing," Tavia replied gravely, "very old, very powerful magic."

Etienne's eyes traveled to the other end of the room, where Ser Charles lay with his head turned at discomfiting angle, a thin line of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. Grunting, Etienne balled up the piece of parchment and tossed it into a corner.

"Guards! To me!" Two Wardens trooped in, saw Ser Charles, and rushed to help him.

"I had to use the chamber pot," Tavia said calmly, "He wouldn't turn around."

"And so you killed him?" Etienne balled up his fists. She prepared herself for a blow, but he did not strike. "What are you playing at, elf? Give me the instructions, now, and we might show mercy."

"No, I won't. I changed my mind." Tavia smiled and hummed another tuneless song. "Burn me and see if you ever get your precious antidote."

* * *

Anders trooped down to breakfast at dawn to not one, but two surprises. The first surprise was that Krag was up and sitting in front of the fire and eating a dainty croissant, of all things. The second was that a wrinkled, familiar face was right beside him. He would recognize that sparkling smile and silvery white hair anywhere.

"Wynne, Maker's mercy, what are you doing here?"

"A little birdy told me you could use my help," Wynne said softly, standing and meeting Anders at the foot of the stairs. She looked tired but strong, her eyes vibrant with determination. She drew Anders into an embrace.

"Did a little birdy literally tell you? 'Cos Krag has a magic crow, you know," Anders said, squeezing her back.

"Kazimir is a delightful creature," Wynne replied, leading Anders to the breakfast table. A plate was already set out with pastries. A steaming mug of coffee waited for him not far away. "You might have told me Tavia was with child. Good midwives are difficult to come by and I consider her a daughter."

"You're a midwife?" Anders asked incredulously, shoving a flaky confection into his mouth.

"I've assisted women before, yes," Wynne replied. She took up her own mug of coffee and blew on it. "I have never been summoned by bird before, but when I heard of your troubles, I left my posting in Amaranthine at once."

"How did you…" Anders turned to Krag. "Did you let her ride on your flying horse? That is so unfair. I want a go."

"There is no flying horse," Krag replied stoically. "Only magic, thoughtfully employed. I thought I made that clear."

"He is joking, Krag," Wynne murmured. "Tell me, Anders, how are you?" she asked, placing a gentle hand over Anders's wrist.

"Honestly? I've been better. But it's nice to have another set of hands, and magical ones at that." Anders managed a tiny smile, hoping it was enough to convey his relief. Krag fired up his pipe, staring directly into the flames of the hearth.

"Your woman is to be burned," Krag said suddenly, "in three days."

Anders spat out the chunk of croissant that had previously been sliding down his throat. He choked on the crumbs and then tried to rinse his mouth with a sip of coffee, only to find it was scalding. At last, he settled on coughing for five minutes straight, until Wynne took pity on him and cleared his airway with a wave of her hand.

"Burned? But that doesn't make any bloody sense," Anders finally muttered, his voice ragged with pain and shock. "I thought they only burned apostates in Orlais."

"That's true," Wynne said gently, glancing uneasily between the two men. "But this is no ordinary execution, Anders. We think… Well, I think it's quite obvious that this is a trap. Whoever has Tavia wants you, too, and probably Nathaniel and Leliana."

"Then why didn't they just take all of us to begin with?" Anders hissed, abandoning his breakfast. He whipped his hands through his hair, squeezing his head hard in case that would somehow make all of it clear to him.

"They could never take you all at once," Krag supplied, "Now they have bait and the walls to keep you in. They are making no secret of the burning. These men seek to draw you out."

"Right, okay," Anders said, punching the table, "So how do we outsmart them? Daring midnight rescue? We could take her before the burning – you know, storm the castle, or just have one of us sneak in… Leliana could do it! She's small, and feisty! And… and very quiet when she puts her mind to it…"

"Were you not _listening_?" Krag muttered angrily, turning wild eyes on Anders. Wynne intervened, grabbing Krag's hand to silence him.

Gently, she said, "They will be expecting these things, Anders. From what I understand, Bayard is no fool. He will keep her under constant watch. We must not act rashly."

_But I always act rashly…_

"So what?" Anders asked, "What do we do?"

"We make camp close to the village," Krag said, chewing on the end of his pipe. "We observe, carefully, and we wait."

"Wait? _Wait_? Are you totally insane? They're going to burn her, idiot! And my _boy_…" Anders stopped, clapping both hands over his mouth. One more word and he would break down, right there at the breakfast table. Nobody moved to speak or touch him. Anders stared into his coffee cup, wishing it was big enough to drown him. Why couldn't they understand? There was no time to lose. They had to act. It was the only option. Waiting around was going to kill him.

"I know it's hard, Anders," Wynne murmured, carefully placing her hand on his back. She rubbed up and down, trying in vain to comfort him. "But we mustn't rush in without some sort of plan. We _will_ rescue her, I promise you that. And as difficult as this is to understand, you cannot be the one to do it. You cannot go into that village Anders, or you will never, ever come out again."

* * *

With every passing moment, Tavia grew weaker.

Whatever Anora had done to her, it was sapping her of all available energy. She felt as if the child were leeching her dry, sucking out her strength, will and even blood. They may not need to burn her after all. She might simply be a dried husk in another few hours.

She stopped sleeping altogether. Or she slept, but it was not like resting. Tavia wandered the Fade, haunted by voices with no bodies, sounds with no origin. Everything was fear and desolation. Sometimes she glimpsed a shadow following her, not her own shadow, but someone else's. A disembodied darkness kept close to her heels, as if waiting for the moment when her strength gave out for good and her body could be claimed. It was terrifying and Tavia wished she could stay awake instead. Anytime she slipped into the Fade she woke with a heavier heart.

The days blurred into one interminable stretch of time. The crow did not return, which only made Tavia more nervous. There was no way to attempt another message. Even if Etienne was stupid enough to give her another bit of parchment, she had no messenger to carry her pleas. Bayard did not visit her and Etienne stopped coming to interrogate her. Even her enemies, it appeared, had given up on her.

The morning of her execution she fell into the worst dream of all. The Fade rose up around her, hazy with its dusty, jarring atmosphere. Nothing seemed real here and yet everything she saw was unforgettable. On that particular morning she found herself wandering a winding path with no walls, just a thin strip of land spiraling away into the distance. The sheer drop off the sides was nauseating. More than once, she wanted to toss herself over the edge. But every time that impulse grew strong, she noticed the shadow following her trembled with excitement. This evil spirit wanted her to die, wanted her submission…

The path continued endlessly until at last the ground beneath her turned from sandy yellow to violet. She watched a mass of land stretch out in front of her, towers building themselves as she watched. The towers pulsed, as if alive, fleshy and round, the color of a fresh bruise. Tavia stopped at the entrance to this unwelcoming village. This was a kingdom of woe. Whoever ruled this ugly place was not a friend. And yet where else could she go? The bridge of land behind her fell away, leaving nothing but a plummet into oblivion.

And so she pressed on and quickly exited an archway that jiggled and sighed as she walked below its mass. The towers seemed to be arranged around an open courtyard, though that openness was no more inviting than the living, breathing archway. She stared around at the towers, which, as she drew near, shook with excitement or anticipation. All of it made her feel ill to the core of her being, but a helpless sense of loss pushed her forward. She stood in the center of the courtyard, watching as more and more towers knitted themselves into being.

The shadow at her back suddenly slipped by her and came to a stop near a gray-black gelatinous fountain. The shadow drew in on itself, becoming larger, before spilling upward. A figure emerged from this dark pool of emptiness, a woman. Tavia's toes curled on the barren earth. She had seen one of these vile creatures before. Once one came face to face with the purple-pink flesh and horned head, one could not forget the image of a desire demon. The demon smiled and simpered and shook outs its tail. Tavia tried to look away as it caressed its own substantial breasts and swayed toward her.

"You don't look surprised," the demon purred, licking her lips.

"I've met your kind before," Tavia replied. "It did not go well for them."

"I do not fear you, mortal," the demon hissed. Then it giggled, snapping its tail like a whip. The flesh towers around them wiggled in response. "You cannot slay me because I am inside of you now. One of your mortal peers was kind enough to draw on my power. I believe she meant to use me as protection for your child. But her spell-weaving could use some work. She summoned me, that much is true, but her conviction was not strong enough to bind me to a task."

"You're… _in_ me?" Tavia muttered, disgusted.

"Well, for now," the demon said with a little dejected sigh, "In time I will be you. Until then, I will bide my time. It won't take long for you to grow too weak to fight me. And when I win, and I _will_ win, you will be all that is lust and lasciviousness."

"I can fight you, demon," Tavia replied. "I will fight you until my dying breath."

"I have no doubt you will. Please do, in fact. It makes my victory all the sweeter."

Tavia took a staggering step backward. She shook her head, willing this to be a nightmare, only a nightmare. "You have no power over me," Tavia whispered, looking away.

"Is that so?"

The demon surged forward, catching Tavia around the waist and tipping her backward, as if in a dance. Her hand, like a talon, fell over Tavia's forehead, gripping her tightly. The demon smelled overpowering, like a field of heady flowers condensed into a single feverish drop. Tavia tried to push her away, but the demon was too strong, too cunning. Her mind began to reel, empty and then full, empty and then bursting.

"Your husband is a delightful creature. So vigorous, so full of desires... I cannot _wait_ to meet him."

Tavia clenched her eyes shut against the swimming feeling, only to be greeted with a vision of her home, her bedroom. She was watching herself, detached and floating above like a vapor of air. Anders waited on the bed, one leg crooked up, the other stretched out in front of him. His hair was down, a signal that he was either ready for sleep or ready for sex. Tavia had a sickening feeling she knew which. She watched herself slink across the floor, completely naked, her body slender and tightly muscled again.

"I thought you'd keep me waiting forever," Anders said, chuckling.

_Run_, she wanted to scream, _get out, don't touch me!_

But there she was, crawling onto the bed, overtaking his leg, nearing his thighs. His smell was electrifying, surrounding her, drugging her like a cruel draught of poison. She lapped at his thighs like a cat, coaxing his legs apart until he groaned and acquiesced. He was hard for her, and his skin felt hot enough to melt a candle into a puddle. Tavia licked his erection from root to tip, taking special pleasure in sucking the droplet of moisture that had appeared in response to her ministrations. His hands laced over the back of her head, forcing her downward, finding a rhythm that drew groans out of him in crying bursts.

Even after he exploded in her mouth, there was no hitch in her movements. She swallowed slowly, licking her lips and showing him her empty tongue, like a child proving that they had indeed been good and eaten their vegetables. Smoothly, she straddled his hips, pushing him down onto the bed and rubbing herself against him until he was aroused again. He made a soft, pained sound, as if he wasn't quite willing to go again so soon. But she was ignoring this, biting on his ear, pinching his nipples, smiling as he slid into her warm, ready body.

She rode him pitilessly, pulling his golden hair until he shrieked for mercy. His hands gripped her hips, pleading trying to slow her down, but she set her furious pace anyway. The shout of surprise and agony he gave when he spilled inside of her was music to her ears. She didn't wait for Anders to catch his breath. Instead, she rolled onto her back and shoved his head down, down, until he relented and nibbled his way across her navel. She spread her legs, dipping a finger into herself and sampling the taste of their combined juices. A shiver ran down her spine as she felt his seed pooling on the mattress below. She took a fistful of his hair and slammed his mouth against her slick opening, relishing the way he whimpered and trembled.

Tavia fought, finding herself, finding a shred of strength. _No more, no more, you're killing him. Stop it!_

"Stop it!"

She was awake, panting, out of the Fade and back into her dim cell. She blinked, disoriented. The sun was getting higher in the sky, the moment of her execution nearing. She listened to the birds chirping outside and to the calls of the men in the courtyard below. Soon that courtyard would be full of people, eager spectators to her death.

Exhausted, Tavia tipped her head back against the wall and realized with a humiliated groan that she was soaking wet and desperate for Anders.


	9. Nine

**Nine**

"You needed me?"

Wynne turned, started, and then her face split into a wide smile, brightening like the sky just before a fork of lightning. In the distance, Desmarais Keep sat silhouetted by the glow of the moon and a milky halo of stars. It was strange to know that Tavia was somewhere in that tower, that he was close enough to _see_ her location but barred from going to her. Nathaniel and Krag had chosen a wooded clearing at the top of a low hill. From here they had good visibility and the copse of trees to protect them from prying eyes. Anders was growing accustomed to the nervous, shaky feeling in his limbs and heart, and that only made him feel more helpless.

"Leliana told me that you and Tavia fought."

Anders grimaced, glancing over his shoulder at the blazing campfire where Nathaniel, Leliana and Krag waited. He singled out Leliana, seated beside Nathaniel, her hair tumbling over her shoulder as she calmly combed it out. Dirty snitch.

"Did she?" Anders grunted, shaking his head. "Figures."

"Does it? It doesn't figure to me," Wynne replied, watching him with one raised eyebrow. Her expression softened. "I know I'm hard on you, Anders, but truthfully? I'm glad she found you."

Anders blinked, wondering if he had heard her correctly. "You… You are?"

"You're surprised by that?"

"It's just… Well, everyone around here seems to think I'm a complete moron. Which, granted, might be true. And maybe I deserve it, but it's… _stupid_, or ridiculous maybe, because I love her. I thought that much was obvious." Anders mimicked Wynne's arms-across-chest pose, switching his gaze between her serene, lined face and the tower looming over the village walls.

"I remember the first time I saw you two together," Wynne said, cocking her head to the side. "You had only just survived your Joining. Tavia came to Amaranthine and, as usual, she had a ragtag group of companions with her." She laughed. "But you stood out. I don't know… Perhaps the Maker's hand, subtle and slight as ever, revealed to me that you were different… _Important_. I'm not sure Tavia even looked at you but I felt an… well, an energy, that was more instructive than any profession of love."

Anders smirked crookedly, his cheeks growing warm with embarrassment. He tugged at his earring. "Do you mean it?"

"Tavia is a difficult woman to love. She attracts admirers without even meaning to. She's perfectly ignorant of her own magnetism. That can be dangerous. But you… You treat her as an equal, a woman. I admire that. Well, that and you have a great little toosh."

Anders barked with laughter, forgetting for a moment that Wynne was old enough to be his grandmother. He smirked down at the tops of his shoes, his cheeks flaming with her compliment. After a moment of silence, he moved from tugging on his earring to pulling on his ponytail. "Do you… D'you think I'm ready?"

"To be a father?" Wynne shrugged. "Probably not. But what man ever is?"

"Thanks… I guess?"

Wynne laughed quietly to herself and then grew distant, perhaps lost in some private memory. Anders, meanwhile, lapsed into another spell of melancholy as he considered for the fiftieth time going rogue and breaking into the tower himself. Tavia herself had led them on some suicidal missions. Anders had followed her into the Brood Mothers lair, never expecting to come back out again. Surely a handful of Wardens would present less of a challenge. How hard could it be? Zap some fools, set a few others on fire, scale the walls (somehow) and rescue the princess… Simple! Right?

_Wrong_.

"So do you think this will work?" Anders asked. "This whole… Waiting for a miracle tactic?"

Wynne regarded him with steely intensity. "She's survived worse. You and I… We are products of the Circle. Tavia is… something else entirely. But still, we have had our affection for religion destroyed by the Chantry and its Templars. And yet I have faith. Why? I'm not quite sure, but there it is."

"You don't actually think the Maker himself will drop out of the clouds and scoop Tavia up out of the kindling, do you?"

_Is she serious? She can't be serious._

"No, but I have faith in Tavia herself and those that love her," Wynne replied.

"But if we just wait here, if we do nothing…"

"It's not nothing, Anders." Wynne touched his shoulder. "At the very least, Krag and I will go tomorrow. They won't know to look for us."

"But _two_ of you? No offense, you're pretty… intimidating, and Krag is Krag, but you'll be overwhelmed," Anders replied, exasperated. "Can't we come up with disguises or something? I'll shave my head, wear a mustache, I don't care… Whatever I have to do."

"Keep your hair," Wynne said. "These are Wardens that are hunting you, Anders, remember? I have a feeling they cannot only sense Darkspawn, but each other. You may no longer carry the taint, but who's to say it hasn't marked you permanently in some way? No, it will be best if you and Nathaniel remain behind."

"This is daft," Anders muttered.

"Yes, you've made your thoughts on the subject abundantly clear," Wynne replied with a little indulgent laugh. She squeezed his shoulder again. "Do not despair. There is still some fire yet in these old bones."

There was a commotion behind them. Anders turned at the waist, loath to take his eyes away from the tower. Even though it was ludicrous, he felt as if his gaze was somehow protecting Tavia – as long as he watched that blur of gray on the horizon she would be safe. But there was no ignoring the raised voices and squawking animals. Krag plunged into the darkness between the campfire and where Anders and Wynne stood. He emerged again out of the shadows, his shiny black crow perched on his shoulder once more.

"Kazimir has returned," Krag reported gravely, "And he brings news."

* * *

An hour before the bells in the square began to ring, Ser Bayard visited her cell.

It had gotten to the point where Tavia literally waited until her eyes drooped and then bashed her head back against the wall to stay awake. Anything was better than going again to the Fade. She would not have the fortitude to walk with dignity to her pyre if she had to face that menacing demon again. A constant headache was preferable to another glimpse of what might happen should Tavia die and the demon possess her body. Tavia suspected that the more time she spent in the waking world, the fewer opportunities the demon had to sap her life force.

Ser Bayard gasped when he saw her.

"That bad?" she wheezed with a laugh, staring up at him.

"What… What have they done to you?" He was on his knees beside her, propping up her rolling head. He smelled clean and nice. Tavia fought the urge to kiss him. That was the demon talking, whispering promises of mercy and life if she just pressed her lips to Bayard's. But Tavia knew better. She frowned and looked away.

"Anora," she said by way of explanation. "She is evil."

"I know."

"And yet you aid her," Tavia whispered.

"I have many regrets in my life, too many to number."

Bayard took her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. Tavia roused herself long enough to look into his tired green eyes. He hadn't shaved, and the stubble was encroaching on his cheekbones. "Please, my lady, I entreat you, confess to Etienne. Give him your secret."

"It's too late," Tavia said, shaking her head. "I can't."

"Please. I will… I will do everything in my power to see your child is safe. If I promise to spirit him away to your husband, will you reconsider?" Bayard was squeezing the life out of her hand. Outside in the courtyard, the audience for her execution amassed. She could hear the excited rise and fall of voices, the calls of vendors hawking food to the crowd.

"No," she said softly, "But thank you for the offer."

"My lady, _please_…"

"No."

"I can't watch you burn! It's not right. It's… I know of your deeds and this… This is not a warrior's death. Trust me, my lady, there is no honor in letting Anora toss you to the fire. If you call for Etienne now, this minute, I swear I will wield the blade for your execution. Your child will be safe and I will end your life swiftly, mercifully." He was crying silently, tears welling out of his eyes and spilling down his cheeks. Tavia looked at her skin next to his. Her flesh had turned the color of old parchment, worm gray. "Please."

"I thank you for your concern, but I must respectfully decline."

Ser Bayard fell silent. He repositioned himself to sit beside her, and for the next hour they did not speak a word. Bayard held her hand, caging it in both of his as if it were a startled bird that might try an escape. After a while she became accustom to his presence and no longer felt the desire to kiss or touch him. At that point his company was soothing. Just to have another human being close made her fate seem bearable.

Over the courtyard, the bells began to ring. They must have been nearby because Tavia could feel their clanging reverberation through the floor. It made her a little giddy and very, very afraid. Her skin tightened with anticipation. She turned to Ser Bayard, who had stiffened like a scenting hound at the first whisper of the bells.

"Will you walk with me there?" she asked softly, as if she were simply asking for an escort to the Chantry or to a dance. "I would… prefer not to be alone."

"Of course, my lady."

Bayard stood and bent over to carefully lift her onto her feet. She saw more tears on his cheeks and wondered if he had been crying all this while. Tavia mourned for the loss of his pride. At the fair, she had seen glimpses of a kind if vacuous man, and now she found her estimation of him unfair. He was a sensitive soul and for some reason, he had come to care deeply for her. Tavia was almost tempted to agree to his terms, to send for Etienne and secure the safety of her child. But selfishly, she could not do it. It would be her and Anders together raising their boy or nobody at all. To her, abandoning the child to years with Anora was just as cruel as depriving him of life altogether.

Tavia tucked her arm around Ser Bayard's, shocked by just how weak she had become. Even the simple act of walking felt like an insurmountable burden. Each step was a new revelation of pain. He was gentle with her, and patient, and the guards outside the door looked surprised at their appearance. Apparently, prisoners didn't often willingly depart for their execution. But Tavia was determined to approach the pyre on her feet, helped or not. She would not be dragged. She would not be prodded.

And after all, she thought with a tiny, private smile, she may still be hiding a trump card up her sleeve.

Etienne met them at the stairway leading down to the bottom floor of the tower. He greeted Bayard with a decidedly chilly smirk, as if he did not at all approve of showing Tavia such kindness. She was sure he would've been perfectly fine with booting her down the stairs like a rubber ball. Bayard ignored him, holding Tavia around the waist as they took the stairs one at a time.

What surprised Tavia most of all was how calm she felt. Perhaps it was because she had never been in this position. Always, she was the one performing the rescue, dashing in to save a life. Now, everything was out of her hands. Either her friends arrived to save her and somehow evaded capture, or they came and fell to the guards or they would not appear at all. Tavia no longer had any say in what went on. She was not strong or fast enough to pry herself away from Bayard and the guards, who met them at the bottom of the tower. It was not for fear of her that Etienne directed four sentries to escort her to the platform; it was in readiness for her alleged rescuers.

And so they stepped out into the blinding sunshine, one guard in front and one behind, one on either side of them. Bayard's grip tightened. He seemed to sense now that there was no going back. The crowd around them jostled to get a better look. Perhaps this was not the scandalous treat they had expected. A tremendously weighty silence descended, even the birds seemed to swallow their chirps, and Tavia looked up wearily into faces that did not look hateful or cruel. No, they looked worried, possibly disgusted, as if they couldn't imagine why someone so small and frail and pregnant would need to be killed. Tavia had to agree with them. It was all a bit excessive. A few villagers actually turned and left, shaking dismayed heads as they went.

This was going to be the most apathetic apostate burning in the history of Orlais. For some reason, this struck her as extremely funny. How ironic, that she and not Anders would get torched for being an apostate. The Maker, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor.

Her baby began to kick, wildly, as if in response to his mother's thundering heart. Bayard and the guards brought her across the cobbles to a wooden platform, brand new for the occasion and smelling distinctly of fresh pine. A tall stake reared up, twigs and brush piled all around its base. Getting up the stairs was difficult and slow, and this inspired more of the crowd to depart. Nobody shouted at her or taunted her, they simply watched with stone faces, shifting and stamping like nervous horses. There was no sign of Anora, but that was no great surprise. Surely, with her political aspirations as high as they were, Anora wouldn't want to tie herself to the burning of a pregnant woman killed for an imaginary crime.

In her stead, Etienne presided over the festivities. He joined them on the platform, resplendent in his Warden blues, pacing the length of the boards as he waited for Tavia to be secured to the stake. Bayard was the one to tie her wrists behind her and around the stake. He left the bindings noticeably loose. Her shoulders already ached, and she was glad to be spared the bite of the ropes.

"Thank you," she murmured. The man had just held her hand in companionable silence for an hour. It wasn't the moment for spite. "You've done all that you could."

As the seconds ticked down, Tavia began to compose a letter to Anders in her head. She had seen burnings before. The victim generally never survived long enough to feel the lick of the flames. They died long before that torment from the smoke choking their lungs. She had ten minutes, she estimated, to fill her head with thoughts of Anders, so that she would drift out of life with a smile on her face. She hoped the fires would destroy the demon thriving inside of her but had no confidence that they would.

_Husband, I know this isn't how we thought things would turn out._

Unexpectedly, Bayard knelt in front of her, sweeping up the hem of her shift and kissing it. Etienne kicked at him, furious to be undermined in such a public way. The crowd murmured with questions. Bayard stood and nodded to Tavia, acknowledging her choice, acknowledging that he understood. His green eyes flashed and blurred with tears. Then he stepped aside, holding his arms behind his back as he watched a high point in the sky.

_It eases my heart to know you will outlive this tragedy. Do not let it kill your spirit. We laughed so much… It would be another death for me if you were to lose your joy and your humor._

Etienne was shouting now, proclaiming her crimes to the crowd. There was no response, no excited hooting or cries to get on with it. But he went on anyway, enumerating her sins to a dull, restless crowd. A Chantry initiate was on hand to take her last words, but Tavia refused to speak. She was done with the Chantry. They had long ago worn out her patience when their Templars attempted to execute her beloved. They could take their forgiveness and shove it up Anora's ass.

_I would give anything to kiss you one last time, to feel your hair in my hands and hear your voice. I don't care what anyone says – you were ready for a family, ready for us._

The torch came close, waving in front of her face, distorting the air from spikes of heat. Then the kindling was crackling, burning, and the smoke rose around her like a shadowy veil. She searched the nearest crowd members for a familiar face. But she saw no one and nothing. That was alright. Anders had stayed away. He would be safe. The smoke was surprisingly potent, filling her nostrils and throat, making her retch. Her eyes filled with tears, burned by the heat and irritated by the all-encompassing smoke.

This was it. This was death.

_I think you were right. Tempest is a good name. Let's go with that, love, it's perfect._

Tavia let her head drop back against the stake, her head swirling with pain and confusion from the heat scorching around her feet and the smoke filling her mouth. She heard a sharp cry from the crowd just in front of her but the smoke was too thick to see what was going on. She glanced up at the sky and promptly saw a boulder sail overhead. A shockwave. A scream.

Now that's odd.

She heard Etienne's shouts mingle with shrieks from the crowd. Her body felt suddenly cool and then incredibly cold. A web of icicles spread over the kindling, hissing as the flames died down and the remaining pockets of air spat and burst. Tavia shivered, legitimately cold now, and watched as another rock hurtled toward the Warden's keep. There was an ear-splitting sound, stone crashing against stone, and as the smoke died down, Tavia saw the central gate crumble. Footsteps pounded across the platform, just louder than the shouts. Tavia turned her head wildly, watching as Etienne's guards fell. The crowd was growing frantic. The portcullis had been dropped. They were locked in the courtyard with the mayhem and noise and the flying boulders.

"Open the gate!" Bayard was screaming now over the clash of steel and the hewing of stone. His blade flashed.

"Stand down, Bayard," Etienne shouted.

"Open the gates, for the Maker's sake, man! The villagers will be trampled!"

Somebody must have thought this was reasonable, because the tell-tale sound of chain scraping against chain let Tavia know that the portcullis was indeed being raised. The square emptied, villagers tripping over each other in an effort to flee. Tavia squirmed, working her wrists against each other, cursing the ropes that were just tight enough to hold her fast.

"Allow me."

Tavia's heart swelled at the achingly sweet and familiar voice. She pulled her hands free, the ropes falling away, expertly cut. There was no time to turn and thank him; she was swept into his arms and they were dashing toward the end of the platform. Tavia blinked rapidly, trying to stop her eyes from stinging. The smoke had seared her throat. When she tried to speak, it came out in a croak.

"No need for words, pretty one. Let Zevran do the work."

As he leapt from the platform, Tavia caught a glimpse of Wynne and Krag, who were in the process of holding back an entire platoon of guards with a crackling energy shield. Then Shale lumbered by, laughing maniacally as he flung another boulder at the keep. He grabbed a piece of rubble from the keep and, rather vindictively, in Tavia's opinion, tossed it at a nest of sparrows. The ground shook with his steps. Tavia went limp in Zevarn's arms, suddenly too weak to even watch the spectacle. He carried her to a row of horses tethered just outside the square gates. The street was eerily empty; the villagers had scattered and vanished out of fright. Zevran mounted his horse, shifting Tavia into a sitting position across his lap. He held her with one arm and maneuvered the horse with the other.

"The bird is in the nest!" Zevran crowed, "The bird is in the nest!"

Shale ducked out of the gate, observing them with his lumpy, mottled face. He had something dark and human draped over his shoulder like a stole but Tavia's eyes were too bleary to make out who it was. "Dear me, you're not actually a bird, are you?" Shale rumbled, peering down at her. "If you were, I'd have to smash you."

Tavia managed a flickering smile.

"Drop the portcullis!"

It was Wynne's voice. Shale slammed his fist against the chains holding the gate aloft. The grid of metal came crashing down, shaking the ground almost as much as one of his boulders. His timing couldn't have been better; it cut off the guards in pursuit – slowed by the magical barrier - while allowing Wynne and Krag time to dash through.

"Quickly," Zevran called, "Before they remember how to shoot a bow."

Wynne and Krag mounted their own horses, and together they sped down the empty road, Shale sprinting behind them, the town shuddering with his bounding steps. Tavia watched the keep growing smaller and smaller. They did not meet any resistance at the second gate. It was raised, open and almost completely unguarded. Nobody had thought to reinforce the outer spans of the village. All of Etienne's men were still trapped in the courtyard, useless.

Zevran did not slow their pace until they were roughly five miles outside the town walls. He brought his gallop down to an easy trot, shifting Tavia in his arms so that he could see her face.

"Did you fall down a chimney, Commander?" he clucked his tongue. "You are covered in soot, little one. And yet still you are irresistible. Someday, you must teach me how you do this."

His silken blonde hair tickled her cheeks. He was beautiful, his cheeks flaming with the exhilaration of victory.

_Such smooth, bronze skin, eyes like a wolf, full lips… Kiss him. Take him for yourself. _Even after being lightly toasted, the demon inside was relentless, straining to overthrow her. Tavia coughed, squinting to keep a sharp headache at bay. "I'm not a Commander," she wheezed, "not anymore."

"You mistake my meaning. You are the commander, dear lady, of my heart. And I'm afraid this is a permanent position, no?"

Wynne cantered up beside them. "Maker's mercy. Let her be, Zevran. She can hardly speak."

Tavia ignored her. Each word tore at her throat. "Anders… he didn't come?"

"You should give your lover more credit, tulip. It was simply a matter of presenting them him the facts – a public burning? Why do something so noisy? So flamboyant? No, we sensed it was a trap and – wisely, I must say – your husband agreed to stay away." Zevran followed that up with a dark laugh. "Though, understandably, he was not at all happy about being left behind. Nor was he thrilled by the idea of me being the one to rescue you. I am, by contrast, _very_ thrilled to be given the honor."

"She does not look well at all," Wynne observed, frowning at Tavia's pale face and trembling hands. "We must hurry and see to her at the camp."

"Wynne," Tavia choked, the blood draining from her face. Her stomach clenched. The pain was astounding. Oh no, this was not good. This was very bad. "We have a small problem."

"Indeed we do," Zevran commented dryly.

"What is the matter?" Wynne asked. She wasted no time in sidling her snorting horse up to Zevran's.

"I believe our dear commander is about to be a mother," Zevran whispered. He glanced at Tavia, his eyes widening to twin golden saucers. "Or have I mistaken the meaning of this sudden dampness in my lap?"

"You are not mistaken," Tavia whispered. Her vision swam. She wanted to warn them of the evil brewing inside of her. But sparkles danced persistently in front of her eyes. She was going to pass out. Before losing consciousness she managed a tiny, "It's time."


	10. Ten

**Ten**

Anders's heart imploded at the sight of her. It was like being kissed by a beautiful woman and then slapped a second after. She was alive – which was wondrous – and carried by that Antivan misfit – which was not so wondrous – but she was still, the color old ashes.

Anders met them at the edge of the camp. He had been pacing there furiously anyway, so at the first sound of hooves and Shale, he hurled himself down the hill. Uncharacteristically, he had worried his fingernails down to jagged stubs. As Zevran drew near, Anders reevaluated his initial thoughts – _was_ she alive? She looked dreadful, streaked with soot and as limp as a doll without its stuffing. Anders had to hand it to the Antivan, he could sure haul ass even with a heavily pregnant girl in his arms. Wynne wasn't far behind, leaping from her horse and abandoning the reins altogether. She almost didn't see Anders, colliding with him in the shade of a broad oak.

"The baby, Anders," she panted, yanking him along by his sleeve. "The baby is coming."

"What? _Now_?"

"Yes, now. Find a clean shirt and tear it to pieces. Conjure some warm water please and meet us in the tent."

Anders watched, open-mouthed, as Zevran and Wynne blew by, Tavia's eyes open but unseeing. He hadn't expected this. Tumbling into action, he trotted back up the hill and dove into his pack. Pounce watched this all with his usual feline disinterest. Anders shoved the cat out of the way, picking through his clothes, trying desperately to find something that wasn't absolutely covered in kitten hair. There was a feeling building in his stomach, as if someone were perpetually punching him in the gut over and over. He was either going to vomit or fall over or maybe both at the same time. There was no time to decide whether he was more terrified of Tavia's failing health or the imminent arrival of his kid.

Nathaniel and Leliana waited outside the Tent of Fate. They held hands, talking in low voices as Anders rushed like a psychopath in every direction. Shale deposited something next to the fire, a body probably, which was weird, but Anders didn't spare the energy to look closer. Leliana and Nathaniel turned and approached the body. Good, they could deal with that bullshit, he had bigger fish to fry – _help_. Lovingly support.

He ducked into the dent, slopping scalding water down the front of his robe. _Bugger_. A pile of thready rags were tossed over his shoulder. Dusk was coming on outside the tent, purple and ribbed with gold. It would have been picturesque but for the panicky disaster unfolding in the tent. Even Wynne looked stumped. She had probably never helped a woman deliver a baby when that woman had just been roasting on a stake and rescued at the last second. And it really did look like they'd waited until the last possible moment. Anders glowered at the black smudges all over Tavia's face and arms. The bottoms of her feet were badly burned, the flesh peeling in long, red ribbons.

Anders set down the bucket of water beside Wynne and then backed away, petrified. Wynne shoved every pillow and blanket she could find underneath Tavia's back. The tent felt awfully full, with three grown men watching what should have been a private event. Anders wanted to bustle them back outside but worried that Wynne needed extra hands. And so he laced his fingers together and squeezed until his nails drew blood.

"There's something wrong with her," Krag remarked calmly. _Calmly_? _Calm at a time like this? _Anders stifled the urge to smack him. Krag knelt beside Tavia and carefully uncovered her lidded eyes. Anders gasped. Where he expected to see white it was pure, glowing red.

"_Andraste's blood_," he swore, clutching at his throat. "What's happening to her?"

Suddenly, Tavia's body wrenched upward, arching and writhing. Krag pulled his hand away as if he had been stung. He stood and regarded Wynne over Tavia's prone body. Anders was going to start screaming and throwing fire balls if someone didn't say something soon… _Has everyone lost their minds?_

"There is dark magic at work here," Krag muttered. Anders was sick of it, all of it. His wife was having a baby, this wasn't the moment for a magical summit. He plowed passed Zevran and dropped down next to Tavia. Her eyelids fluttered and then opened. Anders shuddered at the blood red pupils staring back at him. Where was his girl? Where had she gone? Tavia reached for him and then made an abrupt hissing noise, dropping her hand.

"Get…" she wheezed, "Get him away from me. Get him away."

"Tavia, my love, it's me… It's Anders…"

Someone was picking him up by his armpits. Anders struggled, but her words had shaken him. On his feet, he watched as Krag nodded to Wynne and then turned to Anders.

"Come outside," Krag said. "Come. Trust me."

Anders wrenched his hand out of Krag's grasp. "I'm staying."

"You mustn't. Come, I will explain."

Anders sighed, making the whiniest noise he could muster. But Krag was persistent, shoving him until he relented. The last thing he saw was that creepy Antivan helping Tavia into a sitting position and Wynne moving to kneel between Tavia's feet.

An audience had formed, watching the tent intently. As soon as Anders emerged, they looked away, as if it wasn't painfully obvious already that they had been eavesdropping. Krag ignored them, putting an arm around Anders's shoulders and directing him to a shadowy embankment of oaks. They stood in the shadows, the vibrant purple dawn burning in every direction. Anders couldn't stop sneaking glances over his shoulder at the tent. He expected to hear screams any second, but nothing came, just silence.

"Listen to me very closely," Krag began, wetting his creased lips. "Your woman is not herself right now."

"Yeah? No fucking kidding." Out of pure rage, Anders laughed incredulously.

"I have seen this before. Once, long ago, in my village a girl took ill. She had just returned from a hunt and behaved normally at first. She became very pale and weakened. It was my job, as the village's healer, to tend to her. I found no wound, no disease I could name. She was possessed, cursed in the woods by an exiled crone." Krag watched him steadily. Anders could feel his limbs begin to tremble. Surely not, surely Krag had misunderstood…

"But…"

"No, _listen_. The red eyes, the odd behavior, the color of her skin… She is possessed, mage. A demon dwells within her."

Krag was silent, giving that a moment to sink in. Anders gaped, opening and closing his mouth as he searched for the proper response. He decided there really was no proper response, and instead let the trembling continue until he was certain his boots were going to shake off. He said the only thing that felt right, true.

"I don't understand."

"It's blood magic, Anders. I know not if you are religious, but I suggest very strongly that you pray for them both."

Anders glanced around for inspiration. Suddenly, everything felt meaningless. How was this fair? Hadn't they been beaten and dragged through the mud enough? No, he thought with a dark sneer, he was not religious. He was pretty damn sure the Maker didn't exist, and if he did, he was a god of blood and suffering. Tavia didn't deserve this. Their innocent boy didn't deserve these horrors either. He heard a rumbling from camp, voices. He turned and saw that Shale's body bag had found the strength to sit up. Anders felt a deadening flash of anger. He _knew_ that face.

Krag grasped for him, but Anders was already on the move. He stalked back up the hill, away from the trees and directly to the campfire. At the last minute, Bayard turned and saw him coming. His look of tranquil acceptance was chilling. Bayard didn't even move to protect himself.

Anders was upon him. The chevalier's stupid face was already bruised and bloodied but that didn't bother Anders. He could still see a few places where he could fit in another welt. Distantly, he heard Nathaniel shouting, but Anders had already grabbed Bayard by the neck with one hand and landed several wailing punches with the other. There was something deeply satisfying about hurting him this way. Magic was effective and powerful, but crunching someone's face with bare knuckles was considerably more therapeutic. He wouldn't stop until Bayard's face was nothing but indistinguishable meat and bone.

"This," – _crack_ – "is," – _whap_ – "for Tavia." _Crunch_.

It took both Nathaniel and Krag to jerk him free. Nathaniel tackled him into the grass, pinning his hands above his head.

"I know you're angry, Anders," Nathaniel grunted, squeezing his wrists. "But Bayard helped. He's not a hostage, he's here willingly."

"Well he _would_ say that wouldn't he?" Anders bellowed. "Tavia is dying," he continued, "She's _dying_ and it's all his bloody fault. I'll kill him!" His heart was hammering against his chest. The fight drained out of him, replaced by cold, hard dread. Still pinned beneath Nathaniel's weight, Anders turned his head to look at the tent. Shouldn't there be screaming? Crying? Why was it so quiet?

_You know why._

Nathaniel released Anders and helped him to his feet. Leliana seemed to read Anders's desperate expression and ducked into the tent. He hoped he would return soon with word, but she stayed inside for another twenty minutes. Listless, Anders allowed Krag to peel him away from the campfire while Nathaniel tended to Bayard's mangled face. He wished Bayard had fought back, but the knight had done nothing, letting Anders take out his rage and frustration in perfect stillness. If that wasn't a clear admission of guilt, Anders didn't know what was.

Krag watched him sink down against a tree.

"I said it was blood magic," Krag murmured, "I didn't say I couldn't reverse it."

"And you know all this because…?"

"Because I'm a blood mage."

"How did I not guess that?" Anders muttered, shaking his head. Somehow it didn't bother him, because honestly, that's exactly what Krag looked like. Besides, he wasn't going to throw a tantrum and send a blood mage away when that was precisely what they needed, prejudiced be damned. "So what do we do?"

"First, we wait. If the child is uncorrupted that is a good sign. It is much easier to exorcise an adult. Children are fragile, lacking the strength of will to battle the demon from within. Your woman has lasted this long. Her possession is advanced, yes, but if she was strong enough to get this far then there may be hope yet." Krag pulled out his long, knotted pipe and began to smoke. A rustling in the tree above drew Anders's attention. Krag's raven watched them from inside the leafy branches. Ser Pounce-a-lot wandered over, crawling into Anders's lap and plopping down in quiet solidarity. It spoke to Pounce's care for his master that he braved the presence of the crow to provide comfort.

Anders stroked the cat, listening to Krag draw on his pipe.

"Wait for the child," Krag repeated, "then we will explore our options."

In Anders's mind there was only one option: save Tavia, no matter what. But a queasy feeling was taking hold in his gut. He knew enough about blood magic to guess that reversing her ailment would involve something awful. Maleficarum generally operated on a "life for a life" sort of spectrum. Anders was willing to give his blood. He questioned the wisdom of sacrificing his life. Tavia would probably be quite upset with him if she made it through only to find his life had been the price of her survival. No, there would have to be another way.

A fiery head of red hair emerged from the tent like a flame bursting from the shadows. Anders stood, emboldened again with the vigor of love. This was not at all how he pictured his son's birth. In his thoughts, it was always in their cottage, a scary, messy, mystifying yet ultimately beautiful experience. Wasn't it supposed to be like a gauntlet of sorts? He would start in on one end barely an adult, a stranger in his own skin, and he would emerge on the other side a man, a father… Or maybe that was all wrong. Poetics probably didn't quite capture it. Nothing so intricate and strange could be fit into neatly-packed words.

Leliana cradled something small in her arms. It was wrapped double and triple in one of Ander's old robes. Her expression was unreadable as Anders loped across the campsite, eating up the ground as fast as his long legs could manage.

_Please, Maker, I hate your fucking guts but please let him be alright. I might even start believing in you again if you do this for me. I said __**believe**__, alright? Not __**like**__._

Anders steeled himself. How could he bear it? If he looked in that robe and his son was… No. No, no, no, no, _no_.

"Tavia is asleep," Leliana murmured gravely, "We cannot wake her. Before she… The last thing she said was 'Tempest.' Does that mean anything to you?"

"Maker, does it ever."

Anders stared down at the bundle, which had begun to wriggle about frantically. Leliana smiled and bent a little to let Anders take the baby from her smoothly. He bounced the child in his arms a little, as he had seen others do. Beaming like a complete idiot, he peeled the robe aside to look at the baby's face. _Maker's breath_, but he was cute. It was a boy, of course, strong and adorable, with delicately pointed ears and a fuzzy layer of dark blonde hair. Blue eyes. Tavia's eyes. Anders brought his nose close to the little one's face, surprised and delighted when a fist reached up and socked him in the nose.

"I suppose I deserved that," he whispered, chuckling. The boy seemed to respond to the vibrations of Anders's chest, and snuggled deeper into his wrappings. Anders glanced up, noticing at last that absolutely everyone was staring at him. He blushed, and ducked his head to look at his son again. It was official. He would never get sick of looking at this kid. What a handsome mug. What a ladykiller and he wasn't even a day old.

"Hallo Tempest," he said awkwardly, clearing his throat. He wanted to sound commanding, like a father ought to. "Your mum's… Well, she's asleep. But she's going to be alright." Anders glanced up at Krag and skewered him with a look that said, _I made that last part up but it better be true. You don't want to make me a liar to my own kid, do you?_

"The important thing is," he went on, drawing on a huge, shaky breath. _Don't cry, you imbecile. _"The important thing is you're here, and we love you very much."

Under a tree, his amber eyes glowing in the dusk, Pounce-a-lot did not at all look pleased about this recent development. Anders was sure that in his little kitty brain, other tiny and cute creatures were nothing but unwelcome competition.

"Frankly, I'm shocked he didn't come out with an earring and a ponytail telling us all what a bunch of blithering morons we are," Nathaniel said, striding up toward him. He leaned over to get a look at the boy, smirking in an odd way.

"Want one of your own?" Anders teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

"I don't understand it," Shale said with a sigh, inspecting his fingers where nails would be. "It just looks like a hairless mole. And so _needy_. How you humans can stand around jabbering and drooling over that thing is utterly beyond me."

"Oh shush. He's lovely!" Leliana cooed, tickling the baby's nose with the tip of her finger. Anders caught Nathaniel's eye and smiled, slowly, mouthing, "She wants one."

Nathaniel coughed uneasily. "And Tavia?"

Anders clutched the baby a little tighter. He didn't want to have this conversation yet. He didn't want this new joy to be dashed. Krag materialized over his shoulder. There was still no sign of Wynne or Zevran.

"Her condition worsens by the minute," Krag replied. "We must be swift and clever or her life is forfeit."

* * *

Moments later, Anders reluctantly handed the baby to Leliana and Nathaniel and joined the others in the tent.

They convened in a circle around Tavia, who was now sleeping flat on her back. Anders spied a dubious amount of blood-soaked rags in the corner. The bucket of water had been emptied. Tavia looked no better. In fact, she looked much worse. Without the bulk of her belly, she looked incredibly small and shrunken, as if she had wilted to half her normal size. Her skin still possessed that dull, ashen color. Anders heart broke at the sight of her. He knelt to stroke her head. Krag grabbed his wrist.

"You must not touch her. Anything at all could bring on another crisis." Krag let go of his hand when he was satisfied that Anders understood. "She is in the Fade and will not return on her own. We must decide our course of action now."

"Krag has informed me of the dangers," Wynne said quietly. She looked exhausted, taxed to her very limits. Her white hair had come undone, unraveling around her ears. At her side, Zevran crouched, and he too wore an expression of deepest fatigue. "You are not going to like what he has to say, Anders," Wynne added.

"Just hurry up," Anders said. He was torn, eager to return to his son but loath to leave Tavia without deciding how to go forward. Given the color of her skin, they had precious little time to act and he wasn't willing to entertain the idea of her death. She wasn't leaving him, he wouldn't allow it. How could he raise their child alone? It was unthinkable. Not just from an emotional standpoint, but a practical one, too. Without her, how on earth would he feed the kid? It's not like he had an extra pair of breasts lying around for just such an emergency.

"Lay it on me," he said, staring at his wife's still, pale face. His heart compressed. She was beautiful… even in repose, even when she stood on the very threshold of death.

"Whoever performed this ritual was not very skilled," Krag said gruffly. He had stowed his pipe for the moment. "I assume they meant to trap the demon and use it as some kind of shield for the child. The child would have survived the burning while the mother expired. I have used this very spell before."

Anders made a shocked, strangled noise.

"Only in cases where the child's life was in grave danger. When both mother and child are certain to die, it is better to save the one you can," Krag continued. _I suppose that's logic… In a way. _Krag did not look at all embarrassed by the fact that he had employed blood magic in the name of medicine. "In such cases, the problem of the demon is complicated, but not unmanageable. Before the mother dies, the demon must be drawn out and banished. Sometimes there are mere seconds to do this. But a skilled mage can accomplish such things."

"Hooray for you," Anders muttered darkly, "Where does that leave us?"

"In quite a predicament, I should assume," Wynne replied. "We do not want Tavia to die, therefore the demon must be drawn out some other way."

"Exactly," Krag replied. "To do this we will need a sacrifice of blood…"

"Me," Anders barked without hesitation, "I'll do it."

"No, mage. A life. An entire life must be given to save her." Krag looked at him with his molten eyes, watching closely. Anders felt his hands grow cold.

"But that's… _Who_?"

"Oh? Is it not obvious?" Krag knit his eyebrows together in confusion. "The man you throttled outside. Would he not be an apt choice?"

The atmosphere in the tent was unbearable, thick with silence. Anders had a very bad feeling that this decision would fall to him. It had to. It should. He stared around blankly. Sure, he wanted Bayard to suffer, but this was extreme. What would Tavia say if she woke to find that her life had been spared because Anders had volunteered Bayard?

"This is… heavy," Anders whispered.

"It is not," Krag said simply. "He is the obvious sacrifice."

_ Well, gee-golly, Krag. Thanks. I had no idea blood magic was so gosh darn straightforward._

Obvious sacrifice. Right. Despite that, nobody except Krag looked comfortable with this idea. Wynne observed her toes, pale with dread. Zevran shifted from foot to foot, rubbing his chin too energetically for mere thoughtfulness. In the end, they would still be performing blood magic, forbidden magic, _on Tavia_. What if it backfired? What if it inevitably led to something worse? Anders was certain that in Krag's bizarro mind, this was actually a pretty happy outcome. Useless traitor dead, Hero of Ferelden saved. To Anders, it was far more complex. He would have to live with this decision for the rest of his life, and Tavia would, too.

Anders stood. "I need to think about this."

"Think with haste," Krag advised him, "For we are running out of time."

Anders took one last glance at Tavia, still as a corpse, and ducked outside the tent. He did not anticipate that Ser Bayard would be standing directly in his way, his green eyes half-hidden by the swollen lumps of his brow. Leliana and Nathaniel could be seen some yards away, distracted with the baby.

"Oh. You were listening," Anders said flatly.

"Indeed." Bayard's face was unreadable, not just because it was a grotesque patchwork of cuts and bruises, but because the man had mastered the art of neutrality. Maybe they learned that at chevalier camp. "Over here, mage, if you please."

Anders followed him, reluctantly. He was getting a squidgy feeling all over, like his limbs were turning to jelly. This was not a conversation he ever expected to have. _So I know we hate each other and you took part in abducting and nearly charring my wife, but would you mind very much giving your life to save her? By the way, did I mention you don't have a choice? Great, lovely, you're a peach._

They stopped on the eastern side of camp, away from the tent and the others. It was full night now and the campfire was the only source of light. The air hung heavy with the smell of magnolia blossoms. An owl sang its low, hollow song to the stars. Perhaps it was good that Bayard stood in the darkness. Anders had a hard time looking at his distorted face.

"So…" Anders began.

"I want to do it," Bayard said at once, holding up a hand for silence. "Please, let me do this for you."

"Are you… You're not joking, are you?"

"No, I'm quite serious." Bayard sighed and ran his hand through his black curls. Then he winced, his entire body ridged with pain. "I owe her this much. I was very nearly the instrument of her death and my actions allowed for this to happen. This is a defilement of every oath I have ever sworn, every ideal I have ever held dear. And you know as well as I do that this is the only way."

"The mages at the Circle, they might be able to…"

Bayard held up his wounded hand again. "There is no time for that. Do not hesitate, mage. I give of myself freely. Look," he said, nodding over Anders's shoulder, "At your son. If for no other reason, do this for him. If you do not, he will never know his mother."

Anders bit down hard on his lip. This was agonizing. He was really hoping Bayard was going to be a bitch about this. It would make killing him infinitely easier.

"And Anora," Bayard continued, panting slightly from his wounds, "Must be stopped. She is ruthless, determined… She cannot take the throne. You must not let her."

In the darkness, Anders could see the earnestness in the man's eyes. It wounded him, wounded him to his soul that blood had to be spilled to save Tavia. Anders glanced at his boots, embarrassed, moved and confused and humbled by Bayard's willingness. He could feel, in the back of his mind, the clock ticking, propelling him to urgency, reminding him that his beloved wife was going to die at any second if he didn't make a choice. So this was what it was like, was it? To be a leader? This was what Tavia did day in and day out? What a horrible burden. And never did she complain, never… Now he had to make one decision, just one, and he was balking. Anders looked again at Nathaniel and Leliana. That was his son. But to actually _drain_ someone of their life… This was the terrible price of being a family.

"Tavia would…"

"She would like, I suspect, to see her son grow to manhood," Bayard finished. "You know what to do."

Anders nodded.

"I'm… I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I could never live with myself after this anyway." Bayard walked back to the campfire, his shoulders broad and squared. Anders wondered if he would ever feel better about this. Then he thought of holding Tavia again and feeling her kiss, and his reservations vanished. He followed after Bayard, inhaling shakily as he ducked into the tent. Krag waited in his exact same position.

"Bayard's going to do it," Anders told them, his voice wavering, "He's agreed."

Krag didn't even need to call for the chevalier. He appeared beside Anders in the tent, wearing an expression of supreme calm. Zevran and Wynne were silent, dumbstruck. Krag motioned for Bayard to lie down next to Tavia and Wynne cleared a space. Bayard nodded, turning to Anders before he took his position. He extended his battered hand.

"Farewell, ser mage. Once, I was an honorable man. I wish with all my heart you could have known me then."


	11. Eleven

**Eleven**

**Note**: Equal parts drams and fluff in this one, also a good amount of smut, like serious smut, so if you don't like smut then COVER YOUR VIRGIN EYES FOR THE MAKER'S SAKE, GEEZ. Anyhoots, enjoy the fluff while it lasts…

*

The last time she was trapped in the Fade, Tavia had a clear-cut task: kill the Sloth Demon. Escaping was a matter of wits and brawn, pitting her intellect and her sword against the demon's intricate obstacles. But here there was no way out, no puzzle to solve, no shadowy monsters to slay and it was in no way an idyll meant to trap Tavia in complacency. It was not her physical body trapped in the Fade now, but her spirit, and as minutes turned to hours, Tavia realized there was no going back.

Tavia discovered that if she continued walking, never slowing her steps, her demon parasite could not detain her long enough to strike up another revolting conversation about cocks, which seemed to be the extent of the demon's conversation pool. And she was aware that the baby must have either died or left her body, because in a shimmering flash she no longer had her swollen belly and the landscape of the Fade changed completely. Everything became flat, a misty, unending steppe of screaming winds and chalky light. The color leached from the ground and the skies, and Tavia had to wonder if she was fortunate or cursed to have been locked out of her body for the act of birth. Not that it mattered. She was a prisoner of the Fade now, doomed to wander until she became nothing but a lost and lonely spirit and forgot her humanity altogether. In the mean time, the demon would take control of her physical self and continue the destruction Anora had begun.

She was surprised to feel the ground beneath her feet tremble. The quake quickly spread, shaking her until she feared the floor would open up and devour her. A thick cloud of purple burst to her right and the desire demon appeared, stepping out of what appeared to be a giant soap bubble.

"What's happening?" Tavia demanded, holding out her hands for balance.

"Rejoice, my pet," the demon purred, "I sense the Veil has thinned. I will soon join with your body and leave the Fade for good." She exploded with laughter, bending in half; she began panting to supply enough air for several rounds of hysterical giggling. "Shall I say hello to your husband for you?"

Tavia wasn't allowed the chance to respond. The sky brightened, blinding, and then it too began to shake, as if a god had picked up the entire world and begun rattling it like a snow globe. The demon's smile vanished. Her arrogance dimmed too as she glanced up and down, left and right, undoubtedly watching for the tear in the Veil, her chance to flee. As the tremors died down, a sound ripped across the sky, a shrieking like the sundering of long-hidden stone. It was an unnatural sound, one that filled the heart with terror and awe. Tavia covered her ears, clenching her eyes as she willed her brains to stay in place. She wouldn't have been surprised to feel her own blood leak from her ears with the noise.

Then two things happened at once. The clouds opened up, flapping like a torn piece of linen, and Tavia felt a sudden jolt of pain. She hadn't actually experienced pain in some time, having grown distant and detached from her body. Another blinding flash and two figures appeared on the horizon. They approached at a run, one slight and white-haired, wielding a gnarled staff, the other tall and broad and crowned with a head of thick, dark curls. The demon sizzled in her own skin, stamping her hooved feet and snorting like a bull.

"Here!" the man called. "She's here, Wynne."

Tavia rushed toward them, the demon close on her heels. She could hear the beast snarling, furious to have her plans unwound at the last minute. Bayard smiled as Tavia approached, bowing low in his customary way. Wynne raised her staff and then punched it into the ground, a shockwave rippling out in every direction. It did nothing to slow the demon, whose power in the Fade was palpable. Black shadows slithered up out of the ground, growing eyes and jagged teeth even as they watched. Bayard flourished his sword, stepping around Tavia, planting his body between her and the demon.

"Two more playthings," the demon said with a giggle, covering her mouth girlishly. Her twisted horns dipped as she sized up Bayard, yellow-gray eyes pulsing with hunger. "You are a satisfactory offering," she said, her silken sleeve fluttering as she pointed at the knight. "It will be a pleasure dismantling you piece by piece."

Bayard stabbed at the nearest shadow, which recoiled and seemed to sink into the ground. He looked at Wynne, communicating some silent pact, and the old mage woman nodded. Tavia watched this with wide eyes, wishing for proof that this was real and not another conjured trick. She reached out and touched Bayard's shoulder. He was solid. Present. Her heart began to thunder.

"Take my hand, Tavia," Wynne said quietly. Tavia did as she was instructed, delighted by another jolt of happiness when she found Wynne's hand was solid, too. "We must not hesitate," Wynne added. The demon sensed she was outnumbered and held up her glittering magenta hands in supplication.

"There must have been some kind of misunderstanding," the demon said, widening her eyes in a mask of innocence that wouldn't have fooled a blind man. "Let us talk so that we may avoid the nasty business of bloodletting."

"You have no blood to let," Bayard replied at once. "Mores the pity."

"Mercy more becomes a knight," the demon shot back, crossing her arms under her breasts and hoisting them so that Bayard could get a good look. When he did not react to her petty flirtations, the demon pouted. "Perhaps you prefer something a little stronger, mm? A little more… _robust_?" She shimmered like a mirage, covered in a thick dusting of diamonds, and then she was gone. The demon no longer stood before them, but Anders, naked as the day he was born. Tavia watched Bayard's throat dip as he swallowed.

"Witch!" Tavia screamed, shaking her head in desperation.

Anders smiled at them, cocking his hips to the side roguishly. "Do I not please you?" the demon asked, in Anders's exact voice. Tavia covered her eyes.

"Your tricks are meaningless," Bayard grunted.

"Are they?" Anders asked. Between her fingers, Tavia saw Anders fade, replaced by King Alistair, wearing nothing but a naughty smile, resplendent with golden light. Tavia recoiled; she had almost entirely managed to stamp out and forget the image of Alistair's naked body. Not that it was unpleasant, quite the contrary, but her memories of him were painful.

"How about me, ser knight?" Alistair teased. Then he too disappeared in a shower of diamonds, Ser Etienne taking his place. That was not someone Tavia needed to see naked. When this did not move Bayard, the demon tried again. This time Tavia gasped, horrified, as the demon turned not into another man, but into Tavia herself.

"Or me?"

"Now," Wynne whispered fiercely. "Destroy her."

Bayard nodded, but Tavia didn't miss the slight hitch in his breathing. Wynne began to inch Tavia backward, back toward the way she and Bayard had come. Tavia dragged her feet, whirling to look at the knight, who valiantly stood his ground even in the midst of half a dozen shadowy creatures and the desire demon itself.

"But Bayard…" Tavia protested.

"Will not be joining you," he finished. He bowed again. The Fade blurred her vision too much to tell if his eyes were tearing. The demon in Tavia's form was gaining on him. If he wasn't careful, the beast would strike before he had a chance to regroup. "It gives me great satisfaction, my lady, to serve as your champion."

"Behind you," Tavia called, reaching out her hand.

Bayard turned at the waist. The world was fading around her, dripping, as if the ground and Bayard and even the very skies were melting. Wynne clutched her hand, grounding her as the Fade evaporated around them. The last thing she saw was Bayard's back and the trajectory of his broadsword as he cut diagonally, giving a thunderous roar as he cleft the desire demon – Tavia - in two. She heard a scream, her own, before the Fade collapsed in on itself, obliterated.

Tavia woke at once, with a great, shuddering gasp for air, as if she had been flailing under water for too long and only now just found the surface.

Her eyes opened on a familiar face, inches from her nose, and two wide, golden brown orbs filled with concern. She hovered there for a moment, disoriented, shocked into the warmth of the tent and the sinews of her body. It was quiet, intensely quiet. Everything hung on her, she understood that, but reality was still dawning, working its way back into her mind. Then she smiled and threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around Anders's neck. She felt his kiss at once, his nose against her temple, the wetness of his tears on her ear.

"Maker be praised," Wynne murmured. She was still catching her breath, standing to the side, her white hair mussed. Tavia wanted to ask for some air, please, Anders, but the lack of oxygen felt wonderful, intoxicating. She pulled away, suddenly exhausted, and reached up to cup Anders's cheek.

"What?" she whispered. "Were you worried about me or something?"

Her voice still ached from the smoke of the fire. She felt strangely bereft, empty. Anders laughed, wiping at his face with both hands. "Me? Worried? You're imagining things."

"It is good to have you back , tul - " Zevran stopped himself, "_Commander_."

"I see you've met Z," Tavia murmured wryly, nodding toward the Antivan. Anders glanced between them, his expression somewhere between astonishment and profound embarrassment. His cheeks flared. He scooped Tavia into his arms and squeezed.

"Well, surprise, surprise, I feel like an arsehole."

"A first," Zevran replied mildly, "I'm sure."

Tavia smiled up at Wynne and Krag, mentally doing a head count. Shouldn't Bayard be with them? He had been there in the Fade… There was an ominously empty spot next to her, where the blankets were conspicuously flat and rumpled. She flicked her eyes between Anders and Wynne, slowly making the connection. Tavia took her hands back from Anders and covered her mouth.

"I think this is a discussion best had privately," Krag rumbled. He took out his pipe and nodded solemnly to Tavia before ducking out of the tent. Zevran reached down to pat Tavia on the shoulder once before following Krag. Wynne dallied, shifting around as if she wanted desperately to stay and explain. But fear or perhaps reason won out, and she left them, briskly.

Tavia placed her palm on the blanket next to her. It was still warm.

"He's gone," she said quietly.

Anders continued to hold her close, sitting perpendicular to her legs, her knees draped over his thighs. He rubbed the small of her back, no doubt searching for the right words. Tavia felt a quiver in her lip, an uncontrollable urge to cry. Anders leaned forward and brushed his warm lips over her forehead.

"It was the only way," he whispered. His voice was ragged, strained. Somehow, that actually made Tavia feel a bit better. Sacrificing Bayard had not been easy for anyone, apparently. She wished they at least had a body to bury, something of his to honor for this incredible gift...

"He was a respectable man," Tavia replied, "In the end."

"It was his choice," Anders added in a very small voice.

"And yours, too, I'm sure. I know it's… It can't have been easy. Perhaps I should say thank you, but that doesn't feel right." She tore her eyes away from the empty blanket to look at her husband. It was almost too much to take in; Bayard dead, her body restored and the demon banished. And then there was her husband, holding her, his body nestled against hers, and…

"Maker's mercy, Anders," she muttered frantically, "Where's the baby?"

"Outside. He's perfectly safe. Shale's babysitting."

"_What_?"

Anders smiled, anticipating the retaliatory punch she threw at his shoulder. He caught her hand and kissed it. Tavia wanted to kill him just for planting that gut-twisting image in her brain, even if it only lasted an instant. "Leliana has him. He's fine. No, sod it, he's not fine, he's bloody gorgeous."

"Then he has his father's looks," Tavia whispered dreamily. Anders leaned in for a celebratory kiss. _What a sucker_. "Alistair will be so proud."

He froze. Tavia grinned, "_That_ was for making me think Shale had our son." She pressed her lips to his, kissing him deeply, running her tongue along his bottom lip. Had he always tasted so sweet? "And that was for staying here, at the camp, and not getting yourself killed."

"It was agony," Anders whispered seriously.

"I know. And I also know you're probably furious that I called for Zevran, but I couldn't risk having you captured. Now you know who Z is," she said, "And it should be perfectly clear that he's not my lover. He's _everyone's_ lover. It's just who he is. Watch, he'll have a pet name for you in no time."

"Oh Maker, he already does," Anders said with a groan.

"Which is?"

"_Skirts_."

Tavia chuckled, trying to imagine a nickname that would irritate Anders more, but she came up empty. She sighed, exhausted, and tucked herself into Anders's chest. She wanted to sleep for days, real sleep, where the Fade didn't haunt her and keep her conscious. It had been days since she had proper rest and her body was beginning to remind her that, not only was she crispy on the outside, she had also given birth. The pain was everywhere, dull in some cases, heart-stoppingly intense in others. Her feet felt like they were missing entirely. She physically craned her neck to look and make sure they were still there.

"I'll heal you," Anders whispered gently, "You'll be good as new by morning."

"Yes, I need to be. We have to strike at Anora while she's weakened."

Anders stiffened. Tavia was prepared for his resistance. It didn't matter. They had struck a blow at her plans and they had to advance while she was still scrabbling to make ground. Losing Tavia and Bayard would leave an opening. They couldn't afford to fall back; Anora was her father's daughter. She would deal with the setback and find another other ways to shake Alistair.

"You almost died, love, and there's the baby to think about. You can't ride into battle with our son on your back." Anders was pressing around her, as if hugging her tightly enough would stop her from making a rash decision. "I know you're angry," he continued, "but there will be time to deal with Anora later."

Tavia laughed bitterly. "I'm not angry, Anders. I'm murderous. I'm going to send her head to Alistair in a basket."

Their argument was interrupted by Nathaniel, who was careful to clear his throat and allow them a moment before he entered the tent. "Commander," he said with a wide smile, "It's a relief to see you well. I don't mean to interrupt, but we must move the camp. Krag informs me that the Warden Etienne was wounded in the rescue, but was not killed. His scouts will be combing the countryside."

"For pity's sake, can we rest for one night?" Anders asked.

"No, he's right. We can't linger." Tavia tried to reposition herself onto her knees, but found that her feet ached too much. Anders fussed, making an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. He wrapped his hands around both of her feet and at once she felt the pain lessen from his crackling healing powers.

"Krag's raven scouted an abandoned farm not far from here. It should be comfortable enough for a temporary stay." He straightened up, preparing to leave them. "Krag has offered to put a charm on the horses, to lighten their hooves and lessen your tracks. Shale and I will split off and hope that our tracks will confuse them. We will make for Prideux's estate. He entrusted me with his signet ring and a message for his wife. He seemed confident his people would be willing to aid us, after a little persuasion."

"Is that what Shale's for?" Anders scoffed. "Persuasion? Help us or he'll stomp your ladies into mush?"

"It's a good plan," Tavia said. She didn't want any more squabbling. Her adventures had made her hearty, tough to kill. A wildly uncomfortable sprint was preferable to dying in the night at Etienne's hands. They had to be sensible, even in the midst of their relief and joy, they had to maintain their wits. "The sooner we leave the sooner I can get some rest. Give Krag the word. I'm ready to go."

* * *

With only three horses to go around, it was decided that Nathaniel would take one for his gallop to the Prideux lands and Tavia and Zevran would be given the other two. Tavia was allowed a horse for obvious reasons and Zevran's horseback archery was far superior to Leliana's. They had to go forward carefully, putting their defense first and their comfort second.

They broke camp before midnight, Leliana and Nathaniel sharing a tender but soldierly embrace before he sped off with Shale. Anders had to admire their ability to separate with so little resistance. Their love was obvious but so was their devotion to duty. It almost felt like the old days, when he would troop all over Amaranthine with the gang, Tavia leading them into whatever trouble she could stir up. Which happened to be a lot of damn trouble.

Anders led Tavia's horse, glancing up rather more than he meant to, constantly distracted by the sight of her cradling their son in a makeshift papoose. She was wearing one of his robes for warmth, and looked absolutely tiny, swimming in the thing. But Tavia managed to preserve her dignity, looking far more like a queen in ceremonial dress than a young woman drowning in her husband's old clothes. With a crown and a sword she could've been one of the Tevinter queens of old, strong and beautiful and fearsome to behold. As it was, however, she was his wife and making up for lost time by talking goo-goo language to their son in an increasingly elaborate vocabulary of nonsense words. Ser Pounce-a-lot, surlier than ever, was relegated to pack duty, slung over Anders's shoulder and forced to endure yet another bouncy, rugged trip. Every once in a while, Anders caught Pounce peeking out of the pack, sending mutinously feline glares at the child, who was now the sole recipient of human attention.

"Sorry buddy," Anders whispered to the cat, "You've got a challenger for the cute crown."

Pounce meowed with resentment and dropped back down into the bowels of Anders's pack. Luckily for the cat, it was a relatively easy walk with minimal jostling. The hilly terrain was carpeted in lush grasses and wildflowers and there were an abundance of well-packed paths that carried travelers from one end of Orlais to the other. The air smelled of spring, noisy with bees and fragrant with buttercup flowers and clover. If they turned south they would be heading back toward Val Royeaux and, beyond that, home. But this seemed too obvious a destination, so Krag brought them west, deeper into hill country. He told them, in his stoic and gruff way, that they would make camp at the abandoned farm, recover, and send Kazimir to Denerim and then Prideux castle. Upon Tavia's insistence, Krag agreed to let her write the missive. Alistair knew Tavia's handwriting and she was familiar with the kind of rhetoric that got through to the King.

_ The kind where Tavia threatens to feed his balls to a pack of feral mabari…_

It amused Anders to no end that his petite elven wife could so readily influence the King of Ferelden. It also amused him that her "I talk and you listen" relationship with Alistair was nothing like their marriage. Mostly, Tavia talked and Anders teased her until she threw a punch. And then they tumbled into bed and made up and arrived at a solution to their quarrel with whispers breathy from exertion. Anders glanced up at Tavia again, overhearing her describe the fat bumblebees trundling by as, "buzzy bumbos."

"You're going to regret that, you know," Anders said conversationally. Tavia smirked down at him.

"Why do you say that?"

"He'll be at school, playing with the other kids and he'll be all: 'Oh, look at that buzzy bumbo!' And the others will never let him live it down. He'll be scarred for life. And then he'll think his mum's either a liar or a dimwit."

"Well his father's already a dimwit so why not make it a matching set?"

Anders laughed and listened to her ramble to their son about "dada" being a "dumdum." Someone had replaced his screaming hellion of a wife with a jibbering cream puff, and it was adorable. It was also sort of arousing, which both disturbed and intrigued him. He was either sex-starved to the point of madness or motherhood was kind of hot.

He was coming around to the conclusion that it was the latter.

And Anders was also coming to the conclusion that he did not want to plunge back into danger so soon. He wanted a chance to enjoy this little family they had created before it was all threatened and menaced again. It struck him as idiotic to risk their lives again _immediately_ after cheating death. It was like… like going into your house and deliberately setting your favorite possessions on fire and then just watching them burn. Insane. Diabolical. But part of him acknowledged that they wouldn't be truly safe until Anora was taken care of. And by "taken care of" he of course meant drawn and quartered and then used as a dance floor by drunken ogres. They had tried to run away from their pasts in Ferelden and now it was obvious that hiding wouldn't work. After this, Anders decided, they would have to pack up and leave Orlais. He liked their cottage and their vegetable garden, but other homes could be made. They would be involved in what went on in Ferelden from now on, if only to see the danger coming head on before it arrived. That, and he had a dark, wheedling desire to parade his son in front of Alistair and watch his dumb red face explode from jealousy.

_Right, because that's the way to keep your family safe. Piss off the king. Brilliant, Anders. You are brilliant._

"If you think any harder, my dear, steam will start pouring out of your ears."

Anders started, finding that Wynne had fallen back to walk beside him. He shrugged and looked into the distance. Wynne lowered her voice.

"How did she take Bayard's passing?"

"In stride," Anders replied in a similar undertone. "I think she's still just trying to wrap her head around it all. She was abducted, burned at the stake, possessed by a demon, had a baby and then woke up from it all because someone gave their life for her. It's a bit of a mess."

"And you?" Wynne asked. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm alright, I suppose. I wish there could've been a better way, but I had to respect his choice." Anders didn't mention that he was thinking frequently of Bayard's haunting green eyes. He sincerely hoped those visions would fade with time.

"I'm proud of you, Anders," Wynne said softly. She smiled a little forlornly, lines crinkling around her eyes. She leaned heavily on her staff, using it as a walking stick. "From what I've heard, you gave the Circle plenty of trouble. Usually, those mages don't turn out so well. I've seen more than my share turn to despair and dark urges. And yet you… You are one of the few apostates I've met who use their freedom responsibly."

"Responsibly might be a stretch," Anders muttered. "If you'll recall, we did just perform blood magic."

Wynne nodded, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight. "Irving would not have approved of what we did for Tavia. I don't want to say… I don't want to say he would have let her die, but…"

"But he would've let her die," Anders supplied. "I don't hate Irving, if that's where you're going with this. And I don't sympathize with blood mages, either. I would've cut off my own arm with a herring if that was enough to bring her back. Irving just lives in his little black and white Tower letting the templars make black and white decisions. But it's useless. I mean… Tavia's killed _a lot_ of people. Is that good? No, but I'd defy anyone who says it's flat out evil."

Wynne smiled crookedly. "The Howe boy might not tease you so much if you spoke sense like that more often."

"Sense? But what fun would that be? Hang sense." Anders winked at her, deciding that she was one of the few Circle mages he could accurately call a friend. "No, I'll go on letting Nathaniel think he's some kind of unappreciated genius. It's always good for a giggle."

* * *

Abandoned was a cute way to describe the farm. But rundown, rat-infested and holier than old Lothering cheese were probably more accurate descriptors. Generously, Anders and Tavia were given the hay loft to use as their temporary quarters while the others searched and cleaned the farmhouse. It had once been a stately home indeed, built of rust-colored, rough stones with creamy mortar. But the thatched roof had long ago begun to rot and cave in, leaving the upper floors open to the elements and the ravages of time.

Anders was relieved to finally lie down. The hay loft smelled dusty and sweet, still retaining the scent imprinted into the wood and stone well after the last bales had crumbled and blown away in the wind. Before allowing Tavia to go up into the loft, Anders tested the ladder twice. Hidden inside the first floor of the barn, it had escaped the rotting effects of moisture and held his weight. He helped Tavia up the rungs, and he followed after with the baby in the sling around his neck. He excused himself to find blankets and pillows and to feed Pounce.

The house didn't have much in the way of linens. Most of the bedclothes had been eaten away to tatters by the moths and mice. There was no food left in the pantry or the kitchen except for the remnants of a few moldy vegetables, so old and black they looked like withered fingers. The whole place smelled vaguely of decay, as if the house itself were a body and not a series of lifeless floors and ceilings. It was creepy to skulk around someone's farm, taking their things, cavalierly ignoring the damage to possessions and walls that had probably meant a lot to someone. But their need was great, and Anders hoped whatever spirits watched the farm could feel their good intentions. He didn't like the idea of disturbing restless souls, especially when they intended to stay for a while.

After some serious searching, Anders uncovered a locked, dry chest in the downstairs hall and helped himself to a few woolly blankets, leaving several behind for the others. He could hear them creaking around upstairs, blasts of sound indicating when they had uncovered a bad infestation of rats. It would take weeks to make this ruin into something livable, but Anders chose not to think about that. After some food and a rest he might be able to stand the idea of hard labor. For now, he had a wife to heal and a baby to look after. He took a few cloth-wrapped packets of salted pork and dried fruit and returned to the hay loft. The barn was only a few yards from the house proper, and the roof was mostly intact, made of hard timbers and not thatch. He climbed up the ladder, wondering how many horses and pigs and sheep had once filled up the lower level of the barn. A few harnesses and saddles languished against the southern wall, almost unrecognizable as useful equipment.

Anders's shoulders complained and throbbed as he picked his way back up into the loft. He began to wonder if hard choices could actually manifest physically. Not twelve hours ago he had decided to end a man's life in favor of saving his wife. He regretted the choice, but not the outcome. And his regret sank further away the moment he saw Tavia nestled into his oversized robe, their son lying in her arms. He blushed, realizing he had caught them during a rather private moment. She was nursing, which was an intriguing idea, and one that Anders hadn't let himself examine too closely during the months leading up to this. He had, on occasion, silently thanked the Maker for the delightful way his lover's breasts were swelling, but other than that, he'd been painfully mute on the subject.

Now here it was, laid out right in front of him and he was reacting like a fucking teenager, as if he, a grown man and her bloody husband, ought not to look at her bare chest. _Birds and the bees, Anders, did you think he'd come wrapped in rainbows and eat happy feelings_? Boldly but still flushing, he padded over to them, presenting the found blankets as if they were a glorious kill and he the victorious, meat-providing hunter. Tavia smiled mildly at his offering.

"So we won't freeze to death after all," she remarked, her hand cradling the back of the baby's head.

Anders dropped down beside them, marveling at how quickly Tavia's skin had become pink again. He hated to think of her previous condition, her skin the color of ash, her face lifeless and waxy. That didn't mean she was perfectly recovered. Her feet still needed work, her voice rasped and her limbs shook as she tried to hold Tempest steady. _Tempest_. Weird. Anders was still trying to digest the fact that this was a tiny person they had, one that would eventually grow up to talk and make choices and, in all probability, infuriate them. He spread out the blankets, allowing Tavia the bulk of them and then made what he felt was a comfortable little nest for sleeping.

"He'll probably want to sleep when he's finished," Tavia said, nodding toward the baby.

Anders cupped his head around the child's warm little head. The hair there was soft, like wisps of raw cotton. Which reminded him…

"Your hair is awfully fuzzy," Anders said, looking at Tavia's scruffy mange of dark blonde. Usually it was so neatly shaved, just the thinnest layer of hair. But days of neglect had let it grow out into funny little tufts.

"I'll fix it for you," Anders added, "In a bit."

Tavia nodded, biting down gently on her lower lip. He felt it too. That giddy sensation. It was like some hysterical joke was floating around the room, just out of reach. They were alive. They had given death the finger yet again. Anders let out a relieved chuckle, his chest expanding with the effort. They also had a baby to raise. _Maker, no pressure there_.

Anders lay down quietly, not asleep and not totally awake. He would wait patiently until Tavia was ready to be healed. She never liked asking him to use his magic, and they never spoke much about his time in the Tower. It's not that he was embarrassed, it just seemed so foreign and ridiculous, like trying to explain to someone a complex idea while speaking an entirely different language. Her upbringing in the Alienage was nothing like his childhood in the Tower, but Anders had a feeling these things would work their way out, now that there was a child to bring those memories bubbling inevitably to the surface.

After a while, the baby decided he was done with her and dozed off in the soft cavern between her breasts. Anders knew for a fact it was soft and lovely there. He had fallen asleep in that very spot many, many times.

"Lucky little bastard," Anders muttered with a crooked smirk.

"You're jealous of an infant? I believe that's a new low, Anders, even for you."

"The rest of us have to eat boring old food," Anders replied. "Is life always so unfair?"

"I'm afraid so," Tavia said gently. Her eyelids were beginning to droop even as she spoke. There was a faint knocking at the ladder down below, as if that were a door or something.

"What is it?" Anders called, crawling on all fours to the edge of the hay loft. Leliana peered up at him, her hair glowing like a fire-fall of embers in the dusk light.

"Would you like me to take him for a while? I've found an old bassinet and gave it a wash. I thought you might like the chance to heal her in private, without worrying about him tumbling out of the loft." She smiled, proud of her own thoughtfulness. Anders was proud of it, too.

"You're a goddess."

He checked with Tavia, who seemed reluctant to let him go at first. But her hands were trembling and she was a smart girl. It was time to look to her own wellbeing, especially if they had a fight ahead of them. Anders climbed down the ladder with the papoose. The baby continued to sleep, gurgling quietly. _I hope you're not always this cute or it'll be a bloody chore trying to discipline you when you're bad. Which you will be. No, don't look at me like that. I'm your father, I ought to know…_

"I'll bring him back in a few hours. The bassinet, too."

Leliana gave him a wink and a smile, patting Tempest on the back as she whisked him away to the house. Anders wasn't stupid enough to miss the motherly tenderness she so effortlessly employed. If Nathaniel wasn't careful, Tempest would have a tiny redheaded playmate next year.

Tavia was already dozing when he hopped back into the loft. Shadows drifted across the walls, spilling in from the jagged holes in the ceiling. Dusk tinged everything warm pink, including Tavia, who looked rather like a fairy princess snuggled down into a bower. She stirred at his presence, unwinding like a cat. She stretched and reached for him, arching her back a little. Anders gulped, knowing he was a huge, terrible pervert for thinking about her in a sexual way when she was still weak and in pain.

He opened her robe – _his_ robe – the rest of the way, helping her to slide her arms from the sleeves. In a moment of weakness, he shucked his robe too. There was nothing for it. He wanted to be naked with her, even if they weren't embracing. He needed that brush of her bare skin against his. He needed to remember how warm and pliant she was in his arms.

First, he tended to her feet, pulling them into his lap and licking them with magic until the skin no longer looked shriveled and charred. Tavia purred softly, half-awake, her heavy-lidded eyes watching him with rapt fascination. She was always intrigued by his magic, drawn to it, and Anders felt a smattering of gooey pride well in his gut. Anders worked his way north, casting gentle healing spells over her legs, just in case the flames managed to get her there. At the very least, it would relieve some of her tension. Blushing again – _quit that, you idiot_ – he splayed his hands over her lower abdomen. He wasn't sure what state she would be in after the birth, but he considered the idea of pushing a baby out of _his_ body and decided a healthy dose of magic was a safe bet. His hands warmed from the energy of the magic, sending curlicues of green light over his fingers. Tavia gasped, suddenly much more awake.

"Did I hurt you?" he whispered hoarsely.

"No," she ground out, "I just had no idea how miserable I felt until you made it go away."

Anders chuckled to himself and indulged in a brief sweep of his hand over her curling blonde pubic hair. She smacked at him ineffectually. "That's not healing," she whispered, "Not with magic anyway."

"Oh? My touch isn't _magical_?" he replied, smiling at her giggles. It was good to see her laughing again, even if it was in response to his lame jokes. A thought occurred to him as he gazed with unabashed heat at her flat stomach. He hadn't really meant to, but his healing spells had mended her inside and out, the slight puckering from her recently-bereft belly disappearing. He had read that elves rebounded faster than humans, survival in the wilds helping them adapt a natural ability to be up and hunting again almost immediately. Still, it seemed bizarre. Baby in, baby out. "Do you remember it?" he asked, hoping it wasn't too soon. "Do you remember it at all?"

Tavia shook her head, fixing her eyes on a point over his shoulder. "Not really. I felt suddenly empty and afraid, but otherwise, no. I don't remember."

"Some would call you lucky," Anders murmured, "Except for the whole disastrous brush with death thing."

"I am lucky," Tavia said, "What woman gets to feel perfectly healthy so soon after giving birth? Do you know - it usually takes weeks to get things back to… um… fighting trim?"

Anders laughed and shook his head. No, he hadn't known that. He sighed. He loved her. Maker's breath did he love her. She was so adept at doing that, switching the topic away from darkness and despair when he clumsily insisted on running headlong into it. She poked his shoulder, drawing him out of his thoughts. Anders touched her abdomen again, sending another little jolt of energy into her skin. It was probably not a good sign that she looked so perfectly flat and thin again. His face darkened instantaneously. They had starved her in that cell. _Bastards_.

"I'm coming with you this time," Anders said resolutely. His chest felt hot and furious, too compact. "When you go after Anora, I'm coming with you."

"Of course you are, dummy," Tavia said with a laugh. "Did you think I was going to make you stay home and _babysit_?"

"Just a reminder, darling, but you can't _make_ me do anything," Anders growled, flattening out beside her. He made certain to press his legs against hers. She was so warm, so soft… How he had missed this. And he had put these very moments in jeopardy with his insane, jealous tantrum. Tavia touched his cheek, again extricating him from dwelling on ugliness. He draped his hand over her neck and conjured another trickling of energy, soothing her burned throat.

"Here," he said, pulling himself up further on the blankets, "Your hair is a mess."

"And this is why I love you, because you're so sensitive, so suave…"

Anders pinched the tip of her pointed ear.

"Ouch!"

"Be quiet or I'll pinch the other one," he muttered. Tavia stilled in his grasp. He opened his palms and held his hands over her head. Shortly after arriving in Orlais, he had perfected this useful little charm. He could run his hands over her head and more or less zap her hair to just the right length. Of course, it smelled a bit like burning, but she didn't mind so much. In truth, Tavia had been in fits of ecstasy when he unveiled this talent. Otherwise, she was forced to shave her head completely shiny bald every other week to keep it from getting too shaggy. She hated this and the constant itching and teasing. Anders liked this charm too. He had once, admittedly drunk, confessed to her that she was not only the first elf he ever fell for, but the first woman with a shaved head to make him feel _that_ way and that he actually found it unbearably sexy. It was due to her exceptionally pretty face that she could get away with such a severe look, he decided. In bed, before falling asleep or while he read, he would absently rub his palm over her head. It felt like the softest, sweetest velveteen, and it tickled his skin.

"That feels so much better," she sighed, collapsing back against his thighs. "Thank you."

"I'm not quite done yet," Anders said, "Still a bit more healing to go."

"I'm all better," she protested, trying to turn onto her side. Anders prevented it. "One hundred percent."

"Oh I don't think so," he said gravely, pinning her with his best 'I'm the doctor here, madam, and don't you forget it' look. She struggled nonverbally for only a moment, realizing a second later what he meant. Anders would probably be struck down by the Maker with a blazing eruption of fire for doing this _so soon_, but she just looked too tantalizing in the dusk light. It wasn't totally his fault, he decided, sliding down beside her to cup and squeeze one of her breasts. She was staggeringly beautiful and his _wife_ and for some weird, definitely-not-to-be-examined-reason he found the act of her breastfeeding unspeakably erotic. Tavia melted and moaned into his arms. Apparently she didn't think it was too soon.

_Take that, Maker_.

Anders slipped a blanket over them, not keen on the idea of prying eyes, especially prying Antivan eyes. For all he knew, that lecherous, pointy-eared philanderer was right down the ladder listening. _Let him, I hope he dies from jealousy_. Well, that wasn't a helpful thought. Anders was flooded with a primal urgency, thinking of all the other ways he could arouse jealousy. He grinned into Tavia's neck and nipped her skin, his chest flushing red at the thought of taking her on that oh-so-tasteful and virile bear rug on the floor just in front of the royal thrones in Denerim. Anders could all but feel the coarse fur beneath his grasp, Tavia moaning his name as he grabbed the royal throne for purchase… _Thanks for trying to have me killed, Your Majesty, don't worry, I'm sure the stains will come out if you scrub hard enough…_

Anders bit her on the shoulder, a little too hard. Tavia arched into him, her voice shuddering out in one, long ragged sound. "Why heal me at all if you're going to draw blood a moment later?"

He squeezed her by way of apology. She was laughing, not actually mad. Of course she wasn't, the artful minx. Anders tossed her onto her back, pressing her down into the blankets with feral excitement. He relished the feel of her breasts pillowing against his chest. He was sweating, hard, wet all over with the effort of restraining himself. There was so much more to do… He wasn't going to dive right in, not yet. Tavia clawed his shoulders, her head thrown back, revealing the porcelain architecture of her neck. He sought her mouth, his eyes wide open and watchful as she shuddered into his kiss. His tongue wasn't fast or big enough, he decided, not when he was feeling so greedy. He swept along her teeth, testing their sharpness, his breaths growing ever faster as he clutched her hips. His hardness settled into the slick valley between her thighs.

_Not yet, not yet…_

"Please, Anders," she wailed, "inside me… please…"

Anders squeezed his eyes shut. He had nearly lost her and now he held her, possessed her. Anders slid their bodies together, not quite entering her despite her futile pleas. Tavia's lips pursed - lush and pink - blossoming into a wicked, needy smile as she entreated him with her hips. Anders felt a warm, trickling dampness on his chest and he half-sobbed into her neck. _Maker, that's not fair. _

"Sorry," Tavia whispered, her cheeks flaming, her tawny eyebrows tenting with worry.

"Andraste's blood, woman, do _not_ apologize for that."

Anders molded one hand around her breast and pinched experimentally, reassuring her that he was not, in fact, offended. Quite the opposite. He lowered his mouth, latching onto her nipple, sucking and biting until she shouted inarticulately into the back of her hand.

"S-sensitive," she whimpered.

"I noticed," Anders replied hoarsely, licking around her nipple in circles. He made a mental note that this activity warranted further study, as did the slight, unexpected sweetness brightening his tongue... _Maker_. He swayed, veins on fire; if his dick didn't explode his head definitely would. No point in spattering her pretty face with brains and bits of bone. Anders smiled wolfishly, kissing her again as he relented to his own furious desire.

He pushed smoothly inside of her, surprised and enraptured with her tight heat. Apparently, she really was completely healed. _Ah, the perks of magehood_. This spurred him on, the fear of hurting her vanishing along with the last shreds of his restraint. Anders wrapped her legs around his waist, hitching them up his sides until he at last found _that spot_ that they both enjoyed so much. Watching her face never got old, but this time felt especially poignant. Her mouth opened in various iterations of an O, taller when he gave a particularly salient thrust and wider when he slowed and murmured her name. The way she held him, clutching, as if this was their last hour on earth together, almost ruined the mood entirely. If he didn't keep focused on ravishing her, he would burst into tears at the relief of holding her safely again.

Neither of them lasted long. He wanted to kill her for the horrible, delicious, naughty things she was whispering. Tavia managed to tear a fist-sized hole in one of the blankets when her orgasm came and carried her away. Anders heard the tearing fabric and dug his head into her shoulder, grasping for one last ounce of strength to keep his climax at bay. But there was no stopping it. It started down in his toes and then echoed in his stomach, stampeding down to his groin, not stopping or slowing until he groaned her name into her own flesh. He pulled her hips flush to his as he emptied inside of her. Relentless and sublime, it shook him hard enough to snatch the breath right out of his lungs. Anders collapsed, not bothering to roll off of her. He couldn't move anyway.

When he at last found the energy to coax his muscles into a response, Tavia held him fast. He wasn't sure which one of them was breathing harder.

"Don't," she murmured, "Stay like this for a while longer, please."

"As you command… _tulip_."

"I hate you so much right now," she muttered, pushing at his shoulders with trembling hands.

"No you don't. You _lurve_ me." Anders chuckled, kissing the underside of her chin. He stayed put, as she _commanded_, and reveled in the sticky remnants of their lovemaking gluing them together. Tavia's hands tangled in his hair. The band had come mostly undone but she pulled it free, combing through his tangled and sweaty waves. Anders sighed, overcome by the familiar intimacy of her fingers on his scalp.

Tavia heaved a regretful sigh. "We should check on the baby."

"I'll get him," Anders said, nuzzling into her neck and fluttering a kiss against her slick throat. "Just give me five minutes more like this and I'll do anything you say."


End file.
